Mass Effect: All That Remains
by Errationatus2
Summary: The Reaper War is over, but the universe is dark and deep... Rated M for language and situations. And Jack. Reviews are welcome, but no pressure.
1. Ashes To Dust to Ashes Again

_**Some notes: **_

_We all hate the ME3 endings. Good? Good. Now that's off our chests, this is post-Reaper-whupping. In this ME Universe AU, everything in the game up until the Shepard runs for the beam is "canon"._

_This universe diverts from there. The Crucible still existed, the "Intelligence" existed, but… well, you'll see. Retconning this game can't do anything but make it better._

_All quotes that preface chapter headings, are scattered about, are from the various works of H.P. Lovecraft. Anything else will be credited appropriately._

_I also gave Jack a last name, after some thought I picked one that, to me, rolled off the tongue and felt natural. It certainly isn't canon, but in this little section of the universe I'm playing with, it is. Also, the political situations seemed like natural outgrowths as well, but again, I'm just riffing, and I have no idea if the ME folks would go this route. Don't really care. It just made sense to me. To avoid too many conflicts with established lore, I am using very few game characters to any great extent – many will have cameos, some will even drive the plot, but this story mostly focuses on Jack and Shepard, and a few OC's of my own. I also gave this Shepard a first name, since he's my 'canon' Shepard, and has remained unaltered for all three games. He's the one I "know" best. _

_Javik also has a much longer name in this, but whether it's a title or his actual full name… doesn't really matter. Maybe it's both._

_You might notice Jack's personality is a smidge different in this. Well, my explanation is that she's not remotely stupid, and experience changes one. She's still has issues, but she's more comfortable in her skin now, and she's matured. She's in love and she likes the idea. She's working on it. I've tried to reflect that._

_Some Talimancers reading this might not like my take on Tali. Can't be helped. I figured at _this_ stage in the ME timeline, she'd long since needed to grow up and make her own choices. _

_The short piece I wrote called _"Where We Are, There We Are"_, would also fit into this piece, so it might be worth reading first to get slightly more background on the relationship of _this_ Jack and Shepard, it's not necessary, of course, but it couldn't hurt._

* * *

**PROLOGUE  
**

* * *

**DARKNESS.**

An asari poet once described the universe as "candles floating in an ocean of ink", Galaxies as "light islands of life". To her the black gulfs between her 'islands' deserved nothing more than a cursory glance, the implications being that her 'ink ocean' while deep, was empty.

Yet, that deep and intense darkness has density, has weight, can be felt, can be experienced as a presence all its own, as if it were not the eye but the glare itself, the stare, the leer of contempt for the tiny lives lost within it. It is the direct repository of all primal fear, in it the screams of a billion years of terror echo like ephemeral ebbing tides, felt more flicking nerve endings like static electricity than heard. It is the feeling of a presence behind you, infinitely omnipresent.

In this darkness, things move. They wait, they watch with senses that don't require sight, only knowledge of their own power. Some are deliberate denizens. Some are castoffs, exiles, traitors and betrayers.

With the patience of ancient spiders they simply wait. Every living sentient thing knows them instinctively, every myth contains some drop of their presence, every tale, every offspring's fear, every hushed tale by flickering ancient fires.

Many call them "malevolent" or "evil", but these makers and keepers of darkness are beyond such meaningless labels. They are not gods, they are not devils, they make such concepts mockery.

They simply are. They simply do.

When they move it is as if they had always been in motion.

When they stop, it is if they had been birthed frozen.

Time is conceived through the hot metal stink of space not as a line but a sphere, a radius of experience, moments of cold objective reality joined by screaming voids.

They do not judge. They do not condemn, they do not elevate, they know nothing of compassion or mercy or hatred, greed or desire. They are the generators of fear, yet know nothing of it. They are, save for the simple fact of their existence, almost beyond the conception of themselves.

They simply _are_.

They are aware of us.

* * *

**SSV _NORMANDY_**

**APPROACHING AMADA SYSTEM**

**OCTOBER 2183  
**

* * *

**COMMANDER VICTOR SHEPARD** snapped the last piece of his armor into place, hopped in place to settle it, checked the onboards. All good. He nodded to himself, satisfied.

He sat at his desk, checked his correspondence. Ship manifests and engineering reports, a request from Tali for access to the stores for spare parts which he granted and a requisition for a games room from Joker which he denied. He also took away Joker's Extranet access for another week, adding a warning that ignoring it this time would result in an actual reprimand on his service record.

A note from the asari Councillor Tevos, apologizing for what she called "superfluous make-work", wasted on a man of his talents. A civilian survey ship had reported a sizable geth presence in the system they were currently approaching, and Shepard frankly was looking forward to some "superfluous" combat. Something was jangling on the edge of his nerves, making him touchy and distracted.

A quick shot of scotch from his reserves made him feel better, and he made his way to the hanger, pulling his weapons from his locker on the way. Alenko nodded to him as he passed and Shepard retuned it.

A scuff on the side of his customized HMWA X Master Assault rifle occupied his attention on the elevator ride down and he made his way to the weapon bench. The rifle went down and he swapped in the new thermal clip adaptation with reasonable ease, although he didn't particularly like the idea of hot-swapping the clips, he admitted that waiting for his weapon to cool on its own had definite disadvantages. Granted, _removing_ the ability to do just that if one ran out of clips was just stupid, but it was one or the other.

He ran through all his weapons, pulling all apart, cleaning each meticulously, his Zen, his therapy.

_Click-tock,_ one – precise – two – cold – three - just the way it is.

Thumb on the button – _flick_ – a _snick_ of metal and the hot sink ejects sparking into the cool air of the hanger, steaming as if the weapon had just released a breath. Another in, straight-smooth, hand professional, almost a caress - _click-snick_, ready. This weapon exists for its precision, it is perfect for its purpose. There is no pretence to a gun, there is only one reason it exists, it makes no excuses, requires none. It simply does. A gun has no other purpose than to be a gun.

It is something he respects.

* * *

**ON MINDOIR** his mother, to hide him and his sister from the batarians, directed them into a pit with the real dead and the slowly-dying. His mother bashed in the head of a batarian raider and was thrown into a varren pit, his father flash-cooked for resisting.

His sister Anne had come to rest on top of him and he had obeyed her and dug deep through the bodies as she burned. All around him, he could hear them die, scream, the batarians laughing and taunting and roaring.

The batarians hadn't noticed him because of her. One had come by as the sun had come up, thrown an incendiary capsule into his pit, and he'd had to dig himself deeper through the corpses to avoid being boiled alive. Bubbling human fat had seared his back, and he could only hear them popping and sizzling after that. At some point, the batarians had accomplished their raid and left. He'd dug himself out before he'd suffocated and spent the night watching the town burn, listening to his people cook in the pit with the sound of popcorn popping, and something in him, something that had believed in "justice" and "good" and "mercy" ran shrieking from him in utter betrayed disbelief.

His whole community had been harvested, raped, burned. Long bloody smears of flesh and blood left a gruesome mosaic across almost every surface. Rot and blood and stink.

Home.

Eventually, the Alliance came. He'd been covered in ash and blood and boiled fat, and the Alliance soldiers who found him at first though he was a corpse himself, sitting stolidly still on the blackened remains of the stoop of his house. He didn't remember – not to this day – how he made it to the skeleton of his home.

He'd spent three weeks in a hospital bed after that. He only slept when they drugged it into him. Slowly, faces became clean. Voices didn't scream or plead or defy. He took pleasure in breathing again, eventually, no longer smelled stink and viscera and murder.

The Alliance psychologists put him on suicide watchlists, until Torfan and probably even after, but he was never that disposed.

How could he have been? It was one simple fact that they never understood:

Victor Shepard _died_ on Mindoir, he was no more. 2170. Sixteen years old. Ashes to ashes.

The "Butcher" was born that night - someone else entirely.

Torfan came later.

* * *

**HE'D GAINED HIS N7 STATUS** by being relentless. It's what he did. He never allowed fatigue or injury or pain stop him. He never quit. He had comrades but no friends. He was driven but not single-minded. He would sit and listen and never judge unfairly. Somewhere in all that brutal training, he'd taken to black armor.

His comrades had chided him for the affectation, but they didn't know.

It was ash and night and the bottom of the pit, and it was the only place _safe_.

When they rooted out the batarians on Torfan, when they crawled through reeking tunnels and fought in darkness lit only by muzzle fire, when Shepard ordered comrades to their deaths, he was there with them. Torfan was supposed to have been impenetrable. The batarians had spent a year reinforcing that underground complex against anything short of an orbital kinetic impact, and had equipment for digging themselves out if they were simply sealed in. They planned "honour attacks" on human colonies and even Earth itself, with bioweapons, with kinetic bombs, with "every horror they could muster", and Shepard had known they'd meant it. He saw what they called a "recreational slave run", and what they did on Mindoir – "horror" was mild in comparison. They'd resisted every attack, every weapon and tactic. They boasted they could not be defeated.

The Alliance sent their best – a team of N7's lead by the legendary Naomi Conner. When she was felled, command passed to her S-I-C. They said he was green and untried.

He proved them wrong.

They knew the odds, and he knew the odds. He had earned their respect because he got as dirty and as bloody as they. He never wavered, never relented, never complained of wounds or fatigue. He would not give the batarians the dignity of his hatred, but he would show them he had learned what they had taught him on Mindoir.

The Butcher of Torfan – how he despised the title, not because it dishonoured _him_, but because it dishonoured the people he had fought with on Torfan. It hadn't been given because he'd rooted out and destroyed every last batarian, because he hadn't. It had been bestowed because he'd ordered human troops into those corridors and tunnels, knowing full well the odds.

How conveniently they forgot that _he was also_ in those corridors and tunnels, prepared fully to fight and die beside his comrades. His death would have suited him just fine.

"_Someone__ should __know__,"_ Mulholland had said, her grin fierce and primordial in the red-yellow light of the flames approaching. "_They'll never understand, Shepard. But _we_ do." _

Once again he had to bear the burden, to fulfill his role, to live empty and alone, to live for the dead. He had saluted them and without hesitation armed the heavy HVK ordinance in that tunnel and turned the most impenetrable base in half a galaxy into a tomb of people he had respected above all others and led with a fierce pride.

Mulholland and her wicked, twisted sense of humour. That crazy asshole Arakaki, who stuffed a _live timed thermal grenade _into his mouth and bet everyone he wouldn't flinch. Silly bastard pulled it with a _single second_ to go – made himself three hundred creds. The huge, silent Kuznetsov with hands the size of Shepard's head, but who did the most amazing and intricate origami sculpture he'd ever seen. The wiry Mitzi "Anything but Ditzi" as she liked to say, nerveless explosive expert and best driver he'd ever even heard of; solemn Chaturvedi, who could pop the eye out of a fly at 2000 metres, Vaughn "The Gun" Grimaldi - who liked them the bigger the better, and who liked to call him everything _except_ Shepard, and when he did always alluded it to sheep somehow – people of commitment and excellence and he'd been proud of and killed every last one of them.

No, not all of them. Not the whole squad. Flynn, Shizuka, Black – they'd survived. The team never reformed, but he wouldn't have accepted the command of them if it had.

That was the day he'd begun his internal exile. They didn't care that what he and his squad had done had made human expansion into the Terminus safer and easier than before. That the simple mention of "sending the Butcher in", deterred half the attacks that would've been made therein. No. He was their manufactured killer who did what they didn't have the guts or stomach for – necessary, but not welcome; a walking dead man that dealt death because he'd not been allowed to die when he'd wanted.

He gave it as much a chance to take him as anyone. Yet it always passed him by.

It took him a good while to understand why this was so.

* * *

**ON TORFAN**, his night-black armour served its purpose - his tribute to the darkness and silence that had preserved his shell to gain vengeance on the batarians, his memorial in steel to their victims, to his comrades, to his brothers and sisters in arms. The N7 with its splash of red, bone-white letters, they fit.

He was a walking cenotaph, and it was fitting that it be thus.

He existed to bear witness. He lived when all around him died because he _had to bear witness_. Others could not recount what only he knew so well.

He was an engine of war, an instrument of the dead, the _Hohj-Makhojh_ in batarian, the "Moment of Death", the _Beskdekkar_ - "Bloodseeker", their nightmare fuel.

Batarian children were frightened into obedience with his name. Batarian teenagers painted bright blue dots on their upper eyelids as signs of defiance – "the Stare", it was called, bland representation of the ice-glare of their boogeyman.

The asari called him "_Mir-Hajja" – _'Cry of Vengeance', the turians "_!Edk'tekk'dechakkar_" – literally 'Steel-Fisted Darkness'. There were many names, many 'titles'.

Labels. Meaningless. He was only Shepard.

When he became a Spectre, his armor remained black, for black was the colour of finality, of endings, of grief and night and shadows and places pain hid when the light turned ugly.

One did not, could not ignore that baleful, powerful figure sheathed in space-dark armor - the Spectre who destroyed Spectres - it was if night had formed a man-like shape and demanded answers, left fire and broken things in its wake, the final futile red drip-drip-drip of malevolent dreams.

He heard them whisper on the Citadel – 'perfect' Spectre, soulless, pitiless, perfect to protect and destroy, a ruthlessly manufactured monster, allowed let and leave and unleashed, loosed on the dark underbelly, a ruthless steel shadow feeding on darkness.

They didn't understand _anything_.

_Click-tock_, one-two-three, precise, cold, just the way it is. This weapon exists for only become it must, perfect in its purpose. There is no pretence here, there is only one reason he exists, what he is for, he makes no excuses, for he requires none – he simply _is_. He simply does. In his cold certainty of singular determination, he exists to be nothing more than that.

The Butcher understands this perfectly well. He is its paragon.

He feels neither mercy nor pity, nor does he love, he has nothing but his darkness and needed nothing else. Surrounded by hate and fear and necessity, he existed only to meet hate and fear head on, to destroy it for one more day. His ghosts lived in his heart and they were heavy indeed, but he never flinched, never wavered. His grave would be his rest and his sigh of relief.

When he burns over Alchera, he has not a single regret.


	2. If I Could Have A Word

**OMNITOOL RECORDING TRANSCRIPT**

**KHALISAH BINT SINAN AL-JILANI**

**LATE NOVEMBER, 2186**

* * *

Taken from the rough draft of Al-Jilani's ebook, _Wrong Place, Right Time:_

_Alliance Medical transport _Aelius Galenus_. The crew is tired, dirty, bloody and raw. We all are. I have only caught a glimpse of the Commander as he's brought onboard. I was already on the ship as an embedded reporter with the 229__th__ Advanced. Only Private Morris, Corporal Dietrich, myself and Sergeant Henderson survived from a squad of fifty. I have a broken arm and a broken orbital bone over my left eye. My back is gashed from a husk assault, but the medigel is helping. I'm not here for the Commander, it was a pure coincidence, but the opportunity is too good, too historic, to pass up._

* * *

MEDTECH: No, sorry, he's in bad shape.

KHALISAH BINT SINAN AL-JILANI: This won't take long…

MEDTECH: You insane? The Commander is barely alive and you want an goddam _interview_?

AL-JILANI: I swear my being here is a complete coincidence!

MEDTECH: Whatever. You'll just have to wait like the rest of us.

AL-JILANI: Is that… Subject Zero?

MEDTECH: Which?

AL-JILANI: With all the tattoos. Isn't she a criminal?

MEDTECH: She isn't much better. Scan says she's an Omega-class biotic, but she's fried _all_ her amps. She saved _his_ life doing it. I think whether she's a criminal or not is irrelevant at this point.

Al-JILANI: I suppose it is. I guess a lot of things are, now.

MEDTECH: You got that right. Stay over there until I say.

* * *

_One hour, fifteen minutes later, just short of the Charon Relay. The tension is high. Reports say most Reaper Capital ships are dead in the water, so to speak, the big ones, the Destroyers. But many smaller ones, they're still active, still engaging our fleets, even if they're haphazard and directionless. They're still lashing out, with no discretion - still a threat._

* * *

AL-JILANI: I thought the Relays were all inoperable!

MEDTECH: Where did you hear that?

AL-JILANI: Everyone's been saying it! It's the official…

ALLIANCE SOLDIER: Yeah, for emergency and military craft _only_. Everyone else, the relays _are_ currently fried… and that's the official line until it's otherwise. Get it, reporter lady?

AL-JILANI: I see. How is the Commander?

MEDTECH: Still unconscious. It's several minor miracles he's alive at all. We've already lost and resuscitated him _twice_.

ALLIANCE SOLDIER: Don't harass the Commander!

AL-JILANI: I have no plans to! But the Galaxy is going to want to know that he's alive!

ALLIANCE SOLDIER: Let me put it this way, lady: I _know_ who you are – and nobody's gonna miss _you_.

MEDTECH: Come now! That's unnecessary!

SOLDIER: We'll see. Leave. The. Commander. Alone.

* * *

_Two hours, ten minutes later, approaching Charon Relay. Tension extremely high. Private Morris has died. Corporal __Dietrich is severely brain-damaged, the medtechs are arguing whether to take her off life support. The Sergeant is still unconscious. The Commander likewise. Subject Zero has awakened once and rather profanely insisted on being next to the Commander. The techs complied. I am not allowed near him, as yet. They guard him as if he's made of the rarest of rarities._

_In a way, I suppose he is._

* * *

SOLDIER: Traffic's heavy, not a surprise. We're in the queue.

MEDTECH: Do they know we have Shepard?

SOLDIER: No. Something about security. Why they think anyone would want to…

AL-JILANI: Reapers _are_ still out there.

CAPTAIN ELANNOS: Francis – Admiral Hackett wants to know if the Commander is stable enough to move?

MEDTECH FRANCIS: Move? Where?

ELANNOS: The _Orizaba_. Hackett wants him on his Dreadnought for transfer to Sur'kesh.

FRANCIS: If we're very careful….

ELANNOS: The other one – Zero…? Can she be moved?

FRANCIS: She's bad, but not as bad as the Commander.

ELANNOS: Bring her. Hackett's orders.

* * *

_Dreadnought _Orizaba, _Admiral Hackett's Flagship. It is impressive, but it has seen better days. Blackened holes and sparking fires mar its surface. Considering that it was in the very heart of the battle for Earth, it has held up remarkably well._

* * *

AL-JILANI: _Admiral Hackett_! Khalisah Bint-

HACKETT: I know who you are, Miss Al-Jilani. You want interviews and access to Shepard, yes?

AL-JILANI: The story _should_ be kept straight, Admiral, even if no one ever gets to hear it.

HACKETT: Official censorship is common in wartime, Miss Al-Jilani. But nothing is forever.

AL-JILANI: We all have our duties, Admiral.

HACKETT: Fine.

* * *

_It isn't a ringing endorsement, but I'm in. I'll get my chance._

_Enroute to Sur'kesh. The salarians have the most intact and advanced hospitals still operating in Citadel Space. One has to admire their ability to recover so quickly._

* * *

AL-JILANI: Thank you, Admiral, for allowing me onboard.

HACKETT: I'm not against your presence, Miss Al-Jilani, as long as you stay undisruptive.

AL-JILANI: 'Leave Shepard alone'? I know, Admiral. I know I'm not popular with many soldiers.

HACKETT: You seemed particularly vehemently against Shepard, if I recall.

AL-JILANI: I would have been that way if it had been anyone else, Admiral. It wasn't because it was Shepard. I'm suspicious of any manufactured 'hero'.

HACKETT: I assure you, Shepard was and is the real deal.

AL-JILANI: I don't doubt that anymore, Admiral.

HACKETT: Then you have my countenance, Miss Al-Jilani, as long as you keep that in mind.

* * *

_Sur'kesh. Solus Memorial Advanced Medical, six days later. Muggy outside. It smells of too much green, yet the air in the hospital is crisp and clean, despite it. My patience is not what it used to be._

* * *

SALARIAN MEDIC: Commander Shepard is awake – but he is in no shape for anything prolonged.

Al-JILANI: Believe me, I'll let him do all the talking.

* * *

_Ah. She's still with him, and not remotely happy. Her threats seem hollow, coming from her in her bed, as prone as Shepard. She doesn't seem that impressive, yet she dug him from under the remains of the Citadel, they have said. No small feat, nothing to lightly dismiss. _

_The Commander is weak and in terrible shape – not at all as the stories depict him. Not the "Iron Fist" that the krogan call him, not the "Butcher". Not the invincible hero of heroes._

_Just a man, terribly hurt. _

_The sight, I must admit, shakes me._

* * *

SUBJECT ZERO: Who the _fuck_…?

AL-JILANI: I'm with Westerlund News, I'm Khalisah Bint-

ZERO: Don't give a fuck. _Get out_.

AL-JILANI: Admiral Hackett said…

ZERO: What part of "don't give a fuck" didn't you get, bitch? Get…

SHEPARD: Jack… it's okay.

ZERO: You sure?

SHEPARD: Sooner it's done, sooner she's gone. Sooner they all are.

ZERO: Make it _quick_. I'll kill you if you try anything funny.

* * *

_She is cold, but her concern is very real. It's obvious she cares a great deal for him. I'll tread carefully, I suppose. The Commander's voice is weak, weary, pained. He is missing teeth, which distorts that usually authoritative voice. His face is almost unrecognizable, every exposed surface black with bruises, tubes and sensors everywhere. One of those chilling eyes glares at me, the other smashed shut. His limbs are sheathed in repair casings. Tubes and feeds everywhere. An intern helps him sit up. Zero glares, but she is not much better._

* * *

AL-JILANI: She's very protective of you.

SHEPARD: She also means what she says. Can we get to it please? I feel…

AL-JILANI: Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Commander, it's just that…

SHEPARD: …'while it's fresh and I'm still alive'? Is that it?

AL-JILANI: Not how I would have put it, really…

SHEPARD: Ask.

* * *

_I want it official. I want it historic. I spent more money than I have to acquire this omnitool after mine was smashed by an over-zealous guard. It doesn't matter. _

_This is history._

* * *

AL-JILANI: You've done the impossible, Commander. You've ended the Reaper threat and endless cycles of murder and slaughter. Now that it's over, do you have anything to say to the billions who will hear this someday? We've seen your suit telemetry, the astonishing video from inside the Citadel. What do you think it all meant, Commander?

SHEPARD: I don't know for sure, Khalisah. I think when all is said and done, it will mean very little, to be honest.

AL-JILANI: Well, you still did it, Commander. Give us your thoughts. You save everyone, you're responsible for the greatest…

SHEPARD: I was _not_ responsible – _you_ all were – all the living, all the dead. All I can really say, is that, on _your_ shoulders I climbed to that spot and I made a choice, in your names. I can only hope it was the correct choice. Nothing's finished. We must put out the fires and bury our dead. We must give those we have lost their full due, the full measure of our gratitude and respect for their sacrifices. We build their memorials. Then we celebrate, when it is time.

Today, all of us, asari, krogan, turians, salarians, quarians, geth, batarians, hanar, elcor, volus, vorcha; today we are _one people_. By dint of who we have lost, by the blood shed in this common cause, we are one people.

If I can ask anything, if I have earned anything, all I ask is that we remember that – _we are now one people_.

This is the moment when all the races of the Galaxy can and should decide if we should remain so. This is the only chance we'll get, and the only time it will mean anything.

Make it count.

_The Commander laughs quietly at this moment. He seems to be fading._

SHEPARD: I should go.

_He collapses. Alarms ring. Subject Zero shouts in a fear I doubt she has ever experienced. I am unceremoniously shoved out the door. Inside is a flurry of activity and the alarms cease. There is no way to see inside, and those grim-faced asari guards are coming toward me._

_I did it. I was there. It was nothing compared to that man's achievements, but I can be proud of it, and in many ways, we all can be._

* * *

**Transcript Ends**


	3. Bone Pickers

**SALVAGE FLOTILLA VICTOR CHARLIE 149**

**NEAR THE CHARON RELAY**

**SOL SYSTEM**

**SEPTEMBER 2187**

* * *

"_I thought with a shudder of what Old Castro had told Legrasse about the Old Ones;_

'_They had come from the stars, and had brought Their images with Them.'"  
_

* * *

**CAPTAIN OF THE ALLIANCE SALVAGE BARQUE _STARDUSTER_** and Chief Technician Abby Buchanan gazed at the monitor before her, checked the updates streaming in. In the distance, the Charon mass relay's cold blue light glittered through the debris field her remote salvage teams were swarming over.

No sentient life forms were allowed in close proximity to _that_ particular debris. Too dangerous.

Even dead, Reapers could still indoctrinate.

They could not, however, be allowed to remain where they fell. Even dead, the damn things and their remains were causing havoc.

Standing in her observation alcove on the _Starduster, _she pondered the monstrosity before her. Above her head an area scan counted the debris of seven Reapers, the wrecks of about thirty Alliance, turian and asari vessels, all in various stages of salvage. She 'dialed' in a close-up view of the Reaper, frowned. The thing had a hole in it amidships you could pilot a cruiser through. Several other salvage ships slowly cruised the debris field, among them two large asari vessels and three small salarian 'orb' ships, each containing a crew of five. The salarians were always rather specific in salvage operations, and didn't need big ships to do it. The _Starduster_ could, in a pinch, carry the entire wreckage of a _Normandy-_class frigate.

"Abs – "came from behind her. Malcolm, her drone tech, on another coffee run. He was right on time.

"Present."

"Coffee?" She glanced back, nodded. He saw the close-up, stepped into the drone control alcove, handed her the drink, which she sipped gratefully.

"There's some nightmare fuel," he said, quietly, as if even speaking loudly around the image might reawaken the cursed device. He shuddered. "I'm glad we don't have windows. Scans are bad enough."

"_Windows_? When you can afford it, we'll get some." She shook her head. Transparent metals were expensive as hell. The _'Duster_ wasn't some overpriced asari pleasure liner.

Abby sneered at the hulk.

"Fuck that thing. Dead is dead and good riddance." Malcolm sighed behind her. "Ever read the specs on one of those bastards?"

"Nope. Don't need details. Just glad they're _kaput_. Haven't even seen any of the documentary vids. Always too busy."

"Y'know, your vocation is the reason those things existed at all."

He gave her a sideways skeptical look.

"The hell! I study AI _applications_ – I don't _create_ AI's."

Abby crossed her arms, sipped again.

"According to the official history, the Reapers were created around a billion years ago or so. Can you believe that? They've been butchering _trillions_ upon _trillions_ of people and erasing whole civilizations for over a _billion years_." She whistled softly. The numbers of dead never ceased to stagger her entire brain. "Does your head in."

"I heard that."

"But do you know _why_?"

He shook his head. He could see she really wanted to tell him.

"Why?" She smirked a familiar smirk.

"Software glitch." He was completely incredulous.

"Bull_shit_!"

"Really. I saw the leaked scans from Shepard's suit on the 'Net. The whole mess of them was controlled by an AI stuck in a cyclic logic problem loop."

Malcolm shook his head, not believing a word.

"Come _on_ – that wasn't a code error – and for a _billion_ years? As advanced as they are they had no error-correcting software? That's crap." She had an answer for that, too.

"Hardwired core stuff in the Intelligence. Frigging loopy logic trap. A _massive_ AI blindspot."

He shut his mouth, thought. _Yeah, that could do it. Even AI's can't undo those. You'd have to wipe the whole thing and start over._

"It had managed to come up with three 'possible solutions', it had said. _Three_. In a _billion_ years. Thank all the gods, Shepard was smarter than _that_."

Malcolm nodded, shuddered at the "what-could-have-happened". He'd heard of _those_.

"It figured it'd be something simple," Malcolm said. "Someone somewhere in the past had _some_ sense."

Abby agreed, sighed.

The Crucible had added an option to its 'solutions' the AI had kept to itself, something Abby couldn't imagine how Shepard had ferretted out, (_although she suspected the quarians might have had something to do with it_); the salarian media called it the 'Dark Energy Solution', everyone else called it 'Shepard's Choice' - and it was indeed simplicity itself: the Crucible had added code to the Intelligence, forcing it to obey, the contribution of some unnamed dead race.

The Crucible had then no choice but to present every solution it actually had – and Shepard chose.

He picked the one the Intelligence didn't like. It was then commanded to fire a single harmonically-phased nuclear pulse, amplified by the Relays, that did nothing particularly spectacular.

It just fried the kinetic barriers of the Reapers.

Just that._ All of them_.

The Intelligence had considered it, naturally, a 'futile solution', and thus never included it on its roster of 'choices'.

Shepard had thought otherwise.

Against the combined fleets of Sword, and the space-borne Reapers suddenly losing their-near-impenetrable barriers... they weren't pushovers by any means, but they came apart like any other ship after that.

On many planets, almost a full year later, however, the "Hammer" part of the Last Offence was still raging. Orbital bombardment took care of Destroyers and their ilk, but millions upon millions of husks of all species still had to be shot one at a time – or bombed to hell, where appropriate.

Abby suspected that particular part of the war would take a few more years yet.

The Intelligence had been preserved, and all the collected knowledge of all the civilizations it had murdered over the uncounted millennia remained. Its chamber in the Citadel was rapidly on its way to becoming one of the largest libraries in the Galaxy – if not the largest ever. Scientists of every stripe, historians, teachers - the list grew larger every day - clamoured for access. The 'personality' of the Intelligence – if it could be called that – had apparently been purged when the Crucible fired. It would take centuries to sift all the data. Abby figured the asari were probably rubbing their hands with glee at the idea. Geth had volunteered to help organize the myriad remaining programs left over, as they so closely resembled the geth themselves pre-sentience.

"It cost us, though. Still costing us. _Damn_." She checked her updates again, shook her head at the wreckage out there. It was the same all over, in space and planetside. The turian, asari, and batarian homeworlds smashed. Hanar, elcor, volus, and salarians had fared somewhat better, but they were still hurting.

Turian casualties Palaven-side were damn-near sixty-five percent, the planet itself a crushed and smouldering ruin; almost as high for those in the once-huge turian fleets, the redoubtable soldiers never backing down, never giving a centimeter. Determination and legendary courage, yes, but it cost them. It would take the turians a _long_ time to recover.

Asari around fifty-five percent dead, a third of Thessia still on fire. The batarians were down to a few hundred million spread across a few paltry colonies. Without their paranoid Hegemony, though, they _were_ gaining new respect. New leaders had looked into the past and didn't like it. It was a new galaxy, they said, and the batarians were new, now, too. They weren't welcomed with open arms, it was true, but they weren't brushed aside, either.

The salarians were still in good shape, were picking up a lot of slack, and the krogan were rather enjoying their new roles as galactic saviours and protectors, led by their Urdnot messiahs. After the Cure and the "Great Heroic Stand", what Wrex and Bakara said went. Period. Being krogan the krogan armies grumbled, but they obeyed. Abby smirked again. Right now, in many major universities, even one or two on Sur'kesh, of all places - after over a thousand years - krogan were enrolling in the _sciences_ – arts, culture and mechanics, technical schools and guilds. They had an irradiated culture to rebuild. It would be odd to one day address a krogan as 'doctor' or 'professor'.

The new Mordin Solus School of Applied Sciences on Tuchunka had to turn potential students away. Solus and Shepard had a statue together on the site that once contained the Shroud that was almost half-a-kilometre tall. Krogan couples used it as a pilgrimage point before moving to the breeding planets.

Moratoriums were being held on AI's and synths everywhere. The geth had retreated back behind the Veil with the quarians, and in a surprising twist, it was the quarians themselves who were fighting the hardest to defend geth 'rights'. Abby suspected that it was more the immense military power that particular alliance gave the quarians that was behind all the sudden concern for their once-to-be-exterminated-at-any-cost newfound allies. There were doubtless some old grudges still festering in the quarian psyche, even with rumours of the Council newly-granting them the return of their Embassy on the Citadel as a reward for their aid.

The Citadel races had, after a fashion, agreed to agree that the geth would likely be exempt from any new legal restrictions. Geth versus Reaper had been something to behold.

Still, she wondered, with all the those quiet grudges and new-strutting quarian arrogance, just how long it might be before the Galaxy was at war with the quarians. At the rate the bucketheads were pissing people off, it wouldn't be long.

Humanity…? On Earth in 2184 numbered around eleven billion, seven hundred and fifty-five million, six hundred and eighty-three thousand, two hundred and twenty-odd souls at the census taken that year.

Humanity now, on the still-burning Earth, where even now Hammer continued to be waged; topped out at around four billion, two hundred million, not counting what was left of the colonies – but, the Alliance was still running, the Fleets halved and quartered and thirded but still nothing to take lightly, and colonies rebuilding at a feverish pitch. Malcolm had just come back from Far Meklav Colony a week earlier from his shore leave – the first joint Human-batarian effort, well, _ever. _

The threat of extinction changed a lot of perspectives.

Like anything, she mused, it was all a matter of time. It was a more than a little frustrating that most people seemed not to value change until they had to peer over an ocean of corpses to see it.

On her board, one of her drones chirped. It had found something. It relayed a scan and Abby frowned, told the drone to return with it.

_"_Lucen's Shine_ to _Starduster_, acknowledge."_

The asari research vessel leading _their_ salvage efforts. She reached over, hit her comm.

"_Starduster_ – go ahead, _Shine_."

"_Local sensors picked up a unknown energy spike in the vicinity of your Reaper hulk, appearing on course to your vessel. Can you confirm?_"

"Stand by, _Shine_." She did a quick check. "That would be proprietary remote drone returning to this ship. It has reported an anomalous object within the local debris field – _our side_," - emphasizing salvage rights – "and is returning with it for extensive analysis. Standard procedure."

"_We recommend caution, _Starduster_, the energy signature matches nothing in our database. It is not Reaper tech_."

"Asari databases are pretty extensive," Malcolm added. He was shushed.

"Then we're not violating the Indoctrination Convention, _Shine_. Your caution is acknowledged and appreciated. We may be willing to share our findings. Perhaps. _Starduster_ out."

Malcolm chuckled.

"You shouldn't be so perfunctory with the asari. They have _long_ memories."

She scoffed.

"Screw 'em. They're just worried we found advanced tech before they did. They of all people should know better."

* * *

_LUCEN'S SHINE_ waited and scanned. That energy reading was _too_ different, even coming from Reaper debris, to be taken as lightly as the _Starduster's_ crew so obviously did. Captain Aoi Salara sat and pondered and waited. An hour passed. The _Starduster _recalled all its drones, made a small course correction and drifted within a kilometer.

"Lucen's Shine, _acknowledge_." The voice was calm. Very calm. Almost bland. It was definitely the woman she'd spoken with earlier though.

"Go ahead, _Starduster_."

"_Scans of the recovered object are inconclusive. We request asari expertise in this matter. Can you assist us?"_

Salara blinked. Odd request coming from _them_. It must have been _very_ unusual.

"We can, _Starduster_. Can you transmit…"

"_Request transfer of object to you,_ Lucen's Shine." Again that oddly bland intonation.

"We will assist you, of course," Salara told them.

"_Remote on route_."

That was quick. Salara told the crew to expect it.

"Will you be sending any specialists of your own, _Starduster_?"

There was a long pause. A lieutenant reported the drone already docking.

"_Negative_."

Twenty minutes later, the salarians were enlisted to study the object.


	4. The Doctor Is In

**SHADOW BROKER VESSEL**

**SYSTEM: UNKNOWN**

**OCTOBER, 2187**

* * *

"_Through all this horror my cat stalked unperturbed. _

_Once I saw him monstrously perched atop a mountain of bones, _

_and wondered at the secrets that might lie behind his yellow eyes."_

* * *

**DOCTOR LIARA T'SONI** sat in the control centre of her personal frigate, the _Blue Shadow - _her crew entirely asari, all sworn to her to the death, veteran Death Mistress commandos.

She watched Glyph analyze the current data feeds coming in from her agents on the Citadel and Alliance Command. Behind her Feron gave from a screen, his latest report.

_"Agent Fareelsin reports that the Reaper Flotilla that had passed Parnac has actually turned and attacked the planet."_

"The yahg are under attack?" Liara tried to look concerned. There was nothing anyone could do for them.

_ "So she says, Broker. I have no way to verify it one hundred percent, but there'd be no reason for her to make it up." _Feron paused, as if reading. _ "It's a huge force, several million troops, but with no real Reaper control, it appears indiscriminate. They just happened to be near the system. Fareelsin thinks it may be because of the local noise of the yahgs' planetary communication networks."_

"They were overheard, in other words."

_"So it seems."_

_ "_Unfortunate for the yahg or the Reaper troops?"

_"It's a toss-up, definitely."_

Liara got up, refreshed herself with a cup of salarian _yulna_ tea.

_ "_Keep an eye on it as it develops. Any word from our sleeper in the Despoina team? News from Psi Tophet is far more scant than I like."

Feron shook his head.

_"The Alliance has an unbelievably tight seal on the whole system, which is surprising for them. Their security usually has more holes in it than a dead husk." _He paused again_. "What has reached me is a little odd."_

"Explain."

_ "It's fragmented. All I have is, 'Alliance concerned', 'massive bodies', 'Captain says on the surface.' That's all, Broker."_

"That _is_ odd." She pursed her lips, thought. "It's too odd to leave hanging, Feron. See to it. I want to know _exactly_ what is happening there as soon as possible. This is not a system we can allow to remain silent."

_"I'm on it. Will get back to you as soon as I can." _He ended the transmission.

Liara nodded at the asari that brought her lunch, dismissed her. Despoina was the planet of the Leviathans. For it to go silent – _that_ silent – was troubling. The powers-that-be that knew of their existence were grateful for their aid in the war, but they were no fools. Any race with that ability – coupled with that level of colossal arrogance – had to be watched, and watched closely. She knew of the Extinction Protocols in place, should the Leviathans think of reasserting their eons-old claim to the Galaxy. Any race that threatened the Galaxy as a whole, or had that capability would be summarily attacked _en masse_ and reduced to pre-industrial levels. If necessary, it would be expunged from the universe. It would be officially regretted, but it _would_ happen.

It was a different Galaxy now, most definitely, a lesson the Reapers had hammered home with apocalyptic finality.

Still, she was surprised that she could extract so little from her agents there. That was rather uncommon.

She was even more surprised when, moments later, she received a anxious call from her father.


	5. Where You Are, There I Am

**INTERSTELLAR LINER**

**UKV _EMERALD DAWN_**

**APPROACHING MURASAKI RELAY**

**MID-JANUARY 2188**

* * *

"_Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane."_

* * *

**THE YOUNG WOMAN** wove her way through milling fellow passengers, hands in pockets, holding a bottle in each. A black hoodie and equally dark shades covered head and eyes respectively, a baggy, too-large T-shirt underneath hiding her slim, well-muscled figure. Dark pants and solid boots sheathed shapely legs as she made her way back to her cabin. Her entire attitude was of complete self-confidence. She stopped, nodded at the massive and familiar figure glaring by the door. He nodded back, tapped a control, and the door immediately shushed open.

The sole occupant of the room looked up at her entrance, smiled and then put his head back down.

The room they occupied was on a cruise ship called the _Emerald Dawn, _and very expensive, very exclusive. The room was clean, huge, tasteful, and a little sterile. All whites and blues, the "Alliance Room" they called it. All she cared about was that it was comfortable and quietly private. It was defensible and had two exits, one currently guarded by three hundred and fifty kilos of krogan.

Her companion was a big man with dark short-shaved hair, a chiseled face that seemed emotionless and piercing eyes that were anything but, grey in some light, water-blue in others. His nose was straight, his jaw strong.

The hair was new, he'd let it grow out, along with a trim – still stubble - goatee. Fading silver scars slashed a shirtless, hard-muscled torso. He had a _lot_ of scars, an intricate crisscross that looked like a roadmap of pain, every one earned honestly.

On his right deltoid, he had a krogan tribal, a shamanistic sigil that marked him as a spiritual protector and defender of the krogan, the only human ever to receive it. It also served as an unmistakable badge of identity that made him a sacrosanct person on any krogan world. He had made their future possible, and krogan remembered their saviours.

Soft music played in the background, the old stuff he liked. It sounded jazzy, the one music form Humans had – other than 'Classical' – Beethoven and Mozart, stuff like that – that was also popular with non-Humans. Apparently asari were positively _maniacal_ over classical jazz.

Her 'real' name was Jennifer Haydn. As far as she knew – and the Shadow Broker could uncover - she had been an only child, her parents mid-level professional agricultural administrators from Earth, stationed on Eden Prime for their company, both deceased. Her father's name had been Edward, her mother's Cynthia, their child had been named after her grandmother.

To the Galaxy's law enforcement – and more luridly sensationalist media outlets - she was known as 'Subject Zero'.

As far as she was concerned, both of those people - Jennifer and Zero - were dead and buried.

To herself, her lover, and posterity, her name was simply… _Jack_.

On the screen on the far wall, another droning documentary about him, the 'greatest hero of all time' and all its accompanying bullshit. They showed his interview in the hospital over and over and the few after, the ones she hated, because she was usually in them. He made a point of including her in the few he'd given. She'd been pissed because they kept calling her a 'teacher' at Grissom, when she'd only been hired as a "Special Consultant", as the Alliance rep had put it. No matter what people thought, being a teacher was a _helluva lot_ more than just knowing a particular subject.

_Shit._ Popular media had a way of making large masses of people stupid in the least amount of time. Ninety percent of it they made up and the rest they just got wrong.

Jack made a point of turning the screen _off_.

She set the bottles on a small table, poured a drink from each, peeled off the hoodie and threw it at him. He merely batted it aside with a lazy swipe. He was lying on a large bed, feet on the floor, wearing only a pair of comfortable trousers, no socks, no boots.

"Should you look _this_ relaxed?"

He dropped his left arm over his eyes.

On the inside of his wrist, he had a small tattoo, done in a medieval font: a single zero.

It had been a surprise, and she had thought it touching enough to cry over. A little. In a strange way, it made them more… official, somehow, although she didn't doubt how he felt about her. Such things were _long_ in the past.

"You know I never relax; just thought I'd give it a shot while you were gone. This is as far as I've managed."

"Well, you got the look down, mostly. How's it feel?" Amused.

"Odd. I can see why some like it, though."

Shepard took the proffered amber drink, inhaled its aroma with pleasure, took a long sip.

"Eighteen?" Jack shook her head.

"Twenty-one. Captain's personal reserve. Spared no expense."

"Especially when it's _my_ expense account?" Another sip, savoured and appreciated.

"_Especially_ then." He rolled his eyes. "Uncork it, Shepard - they were only too happy to offer it up _gratiuito_, considering who was askin' for it."

She kicked off her boots, planted herself on his lap, gulped a big gulp of her own drink.

"You realize you're never gonna have to pay for anything ever again - _right_, Mr. Second Coming?"

He snorted. Like he'd done it all by himself. Like any 'hero', he'd climbed to such lofty heights via a mountain of corpses, both enemies and allies, dead friends, dead loves, dead family. Heroes were forged through death, and he was sick of it. He'd never done anything with that 'goal' in mind. He _hated_ the label. He was _not _a hero, no matter what they called him. He had been _necessary, _that was all.

He'd left all the meaningless medals they'd hung on him behind. His victories were carried in his heart, on his skin, in the eyes and regard of the people he cared about.

Jack squirmed on him until he grunted, asked,

"I know we're being sorta all incognito an' shit, right?"

A nod.

"How did you plan on doing that with a big freaking _krogan_ guarding the door?"

"_The krogan will soon be everywhere_," he intoned darkly, imitating a rather serious EarthNet commentator. She snickered, got herself comfortable, peeled off the baggy T. She was wearing nothing but ink under it. He eyed her up appreciatively, smiled. One hand brushed under a firm little breast, stroked over her smooth, hard tummy, stopped on a hip.

"It was Grunt's idea. Nothing wrong with some extra security. He's only going as far as krogan territory, anyway."

She nodded, pursed full lips in a lazy smile as she ran a hand over her head. She'd gone back to 'bald'. "Felt like it", was the only reason she gave when asked, her actual reason more practical. No one could grab it in a fight. One too many husk almost dragged her down because she'd let it grow.

Jack was as relaxed as he'd ever seen her, was glad to see it. She scratched her ear absently, around a shiny new silver amp. They'd been custom-made, especially for her.

"They _still_ bothering you?"

"You kidding? I eat amps like candy." She scratched-rubbed it again, relented. "It's just a little irritated. I never had amps that bugged me this long before. Maybe I shouldn't have volunteered to try the new L70's quite so fast." She rubbed her other ear.

He smiled. They were called '7-_zeros_' for a reason. _She'd_ designed them.

Jack had almost all new amps. She'd burned them out, digging him free from under a hundred tons of Citadel rubble. That chunk had broken off another piece that had crushed half of the city of Rheims in France, but he'd had a brigade of angels on his shoulders. The heavy muscle, bone and skin weaves he'd acquired during his mission against the Collectors also paid for themselves. The section he'd managed to reach before the Crucible had fired had emergency bulkhead kinetic barriers and independent eezo generators, which helped it survive reentry and keep him in one more-or-less reasonable piece.

Rheims hadn't been as lucky.

Jack had been on the first shuttle to find the site, and she had not waited for emergency crews to arrive.

Apparently great stress or great anger or both ramped Jack to extremes because her first chunk of biotically-thrown Citadel had been estimated to have been almost _three_ metric _tons_.

The amp on her left ear had blown at that, but she'd barely noticed. She had dug until she found him, every massive lift frying another amp, causing her to bleed and stagger, but she never quit - with her last ounce of biotic strength, had thrown a barrier over them both as it started to rain hot ash from other disintegrating and falling debris. She dropped it only when unconsciousness seized her, moments after emergency crews had finally arrived, and both had been on the razor-edged ledge of death.

According to reports, Jack had to be pried physically from Shepard, and his hand had to be _broken_ to get him to release her. Somehow, even suffering the trauma he had, he'd _known_ it was her.

If _that_ hadn't convinced either of how they really felt, nothing ever would.

Shepard 'died' more than once in the emergency shuttle, but he'd been revived, his cybernetics and nanobots doing their job, and had then spent four months in an exclusive salarian hospital, guarded by a troop of hardened elite specialists from nearly every Citadel race.

His 'honour guard' consisted of the re-formed krogan Aralakh Company, still commanded by Grunt, asari "Death Mistress" commandos and five Justicars, including the famous Samara, turian Blackwatch, salarian STG, human N7's, geth Primes and quarian First Strike Marines. Drell for the hanar, elcor 'tank' soldiers and even a squad of volus E-troopers.

The most surprising had been the contingent of batarian _Hjak'rakar,_ their proud elite First Guard, sent by the new leader of the batarian Cooperative, Grozen Pazness - bearing a message of forgiveness and understanding for Aratoht, and a humble request to be permitted to help guard the 'Galactic Hero'. Released from the Hegemony's grip, batarians were stepping up and showing a different side indeed.

Admiral Hackett had, despite some quiet protest assigned them to protect the wing Shepard recuperated in, and the batarians had stood with fierce pride at every door and entrance with complete professionalism, and Shepard slept in complete comfort and total security.

He'd wondered what all the fuss was about.

Jack spent two months in the same hospital, the same wing, and after a while she was put in his room at her rather vehement insistence, where she spent her waking moments watching him, talking to him in his brief bouts of consciousness. They had learned a lot about each other in that period, speaking of things they'd mightn't otherwise, but after everything they'd been through and done and endured, keeping secrets at that point in the game seemed stupid and self-defeating. After she had recouped, she'd alternated being at the hospital and the Academy (_at his insistence_), trying to help get it back in some kind of order, redesigning her amps for herself and her students.

Both had required two months of physical therapy to really get up and moving again, and Shepard and Jack then spent a solid fifteen days at Pinnacle Station wrecking every combat curve in the place, but both felt better now. Better than better.

Jack's surviving students – proudly calling themselves "Zero Squad" - had sent her the medals they'd won (both active and posthumously) when she'd been finally cleared.

Legend had it she cried for a solid twenty minutes and sent them back with one of the most profane letters ever penned by a single individual.

The framed letter hung above her desk in Grissom Academy, courtesy of her now-graduated class.

It was also apparently required reading for all new students.

"They _are_ brand new – cutting edge. You're not exactly a lightweight in the biotics department, either." He yawned, more relaxed than he'd realized. "I had meant to ask," Shepard began, reaching up from her hip to gently rub her other ear, "where those bursts of power come from, on Purgatory, in France – you peak higher at full strength than most asari matriarchs."

Jack smirked at him, stretched like a cat.

"Asari are over-fuckin'-rated. Do you know how many stinkin' amps and e-nodes I have in me? I had to install a deadening-drug sheathe on my jugular just so I could function." She tapped the faint scar on her throat under her left ear. The original had been more jagged, some 'back-alley' surgery done years before she'd met him. During the Collector mission, she'd gone to Chakwas to have it fixed and upgraded. During her stay in the salarian hospital, a far more sophisticated one had been installed. Jack had considerably more control over it and her biotics now. No more waking in the middle of the night in the midst of room-wreckage.

One salarian medtech, tracking both her current and potential output, said in his report that Jack "was now the most terrifying biotic" he'd ever encountered.

She arched an eyebrow at Shepard.

"Now I only peak _that_ high when I'm nearly frozen or _really_ pissed off."

"_Right._ We tattoo _that_ warning label right _here_." He stroked his hand back across her stomach, found a small bare patch. "_'Keep Jack warm, keep Jack happy'_."

She squirmed on him again, gave him a saucy smile.

"Add 'satisfied', too."

"Hey – I may be _the _Commander Shepard, but even I can't do the impossible."

"But you're gonna try, right?"

"Oh, _hell yeah_."

Both laughed, and it was a measure of how they'd grown together that the laughter came so easily. Jack got up, topped off their glasses, came back and seated herself as before.

He saluted her with his glass, sipped.

"Should we have done this without tellin' anybody?"

"We told bodies."

"You know what I mean, jackass." A semi-hard punch to his stomach. He grunted for effect, and she knew it was fake, so she punched him again. It was like punching a bulkhead.

"Everyone that needs to know and can keep their mouths shut knows. Everyone else…"

"…Can go to hell." She finished for him. She sat her drink on the small table near the bed, laid down on him, chin on his sternum. He did the same with his glass after a last sip, stretched his arms over his head, yawned.

"You okay for this?" She asked with a perceptive concern only he ever heard. "I mean, after everything…"

"You ever wonder why I don't dance?" He asked, and she nodded, willing to follow his tangents. They usually went _some_where, eventually. That didn't mean she wouldn't get a shot or two in.

"Because you _can't_. For someone who moves so well every other time, you just _suck_ at it." She paused, thought a moment. "Well, okay, you dance fine when it's just you and me…"

He just snorted softly, poked her lightly in the side.

"When I was just an Alliance grunt? My favourite part of the job." Sardonic. "Going to some social function on Alliance PR because I was the "Official Face of Humanity" – hell, then, now. Having to stand and listen to this or that boring rep or ambassador after I just spent three days on an op on some hell-planet, pissing blood for two days of it because some damn Blood Pack krogan charged me and slammed my ass through a metre of plasicrete, or sleeping sitting up for a week because an Eclipse bitch twisted my guts and spine with a singularity and damn-near pulled both out through my eye sockets."

Jack winced with sympathy. She knew what _that_ felt like. She remembered a few missions when they'd went after the Collectors. She'd seen him in the medbay after fighting that Vasir bitch on Illium and him withstanding _three_ Vanguard charges. How many bones had she broken? He was one black bruise from crotch to throat for days – despite Chakwas and her machines.

"Y'know when you're a 'hero', you're supposed to be a _standard_, whatever the hell that means. No matter where I'd go or what I'd do, or say – every goddamn twitch, look, gesture and word was being watched and analyzed. And _judged_." His hand idly stroked her back as he spoke, would trace the long scar on her spine, stop, come slowly back up. She almost felt like purring.

"I was supposed to 'represent' this or that or some bullshit ideology. But, hey, it's not that big a deal, part of the job, part of being an Alliance hero, I signed up for it - it's what Gunny Ellison at Boot called a 'fame anchor' – all you could do was hope it never weighed you down too much."

She looked at him skeptically. He shrugged.

"Gunny was like that."

She nodded, indicated that he could continue.

"So… you learn – in public, at least, to be that standard. You never say more than you have to, or should, never move more than you have to, never blink, never trip. If you do any of those things, that's what PR people are for – 'official explanations'. If you're standing there with busted ribs, you smile anyway. I was the Shepard on the posters, that asinine propaganda." She nodded again. She'd seen them, and sneered. "But… _that_ Shepard? He's gone. That life, that person he had to be – dead in orbit of Alchera."

He chuckled, but there was no humour in it.

"Frankly, I don't miss him. I'm glad he's gone. I could stand being a Spectre. No bullshit, no red tape, no goddamn judges, no empty heroics."

He was quiet long enough for her to look up.

"I've been dead too many times," he started again, after a small smile. "I've given my 'full measure' as Anderson…" Another pause. He did it whenever he used that name, and she'd learned it was out of respect, and an always-lingering quiet grief at the loss of a man he had both admired and loved like a father. "…called it. What _do_ I owe? Whose standard do I have to follow now?"

"That's why you don't dance?" She paused, then amended, "At least in public?" Her tone said she didn't quite see how it figured in.

"Sorta. _ I_ dance in public, and _everyone_ sees it. So _now_, when I dance, it's only with you – and only for me, for us." He smiled. "I've earned _that_ much, haven't I? I can start trying to _live for_ things for a change. Can't I?"

She laid her head down, ear over his heart, listening to its strong, steady rhythm, then nodded, agreeing completely. Earned it and then some.

"I guess we're both different now." She laughed softly to herself. "Took us long enough."

"How's it feel?"

"Like I've …grown up, finally. I think. I hope. I don't feel… aimless."

"Were you drifting, Jack?"

"I sure as hell wasn't going anywhere but _to_ hell. Didn't care. Didn't think I needed to do anything else. Doubted I'd last long anyway. I wasn't going anywhere, I was just …going."

"I can understand that. Where _do_ the dead call home?"

She looked back up at him, concerned at the melancholy tone in his voice. He smiled at her.

"That's just how _I_ felt for a long time. I _like_ to think the Butcher is dead. I'd prefer it. The past, however, never dies. I'll always be the Butcher. But I think now it'll be on my terms."

"Embrace the label?" She pondered it.

"No. Define it to suit _you_."

"You're pretty fuckin' smart, you know that?"

"I'm pretty, too." She shook her head. She liked his looks just fine – and he wasn't pretty by any stretch.

"You'll do." She sighed. "Yeah. The past. Can't escape anything."

"Escape _what_? You _earned_ every ounce of attitude you have, lady. What we were may shape us, but what we are _now _matters more. People won't be dealing with the Subject Zero of years ago. They'll have to deal with the Subject Zero _now_, wiser, better and stronger than ever."

"You think?"

"Yup. She's a helluva sight scarier now than she was then." He chuckled, his chest rumbling with it. "Let 'em consider _that_."

Jack pressed herself to him. _Damn romantic asshole_. She looked back up. Her chest was getting that hot hurty-feeling it got when her feelings for him started to overtake her, that scary-wonderful hurt she anticipated and feared.

"I know I don't say _it_…" she began. "I've never said _it_ – well, not that you've heard it." He waited, let her work it through. "I _feel_ it though. I'm _in_ it, and full _of_ it and all that, and fuck me do I _seriously _have the hots for the feeling…"

"What's the problem?"

"I'm a damn coward. You say it to me, but I don't have the guts to say it to your face, when you're awake. It's like, if I do, it'll go away or you'll change your mind. It's so goddamn stupid. It _should_ be the easiest thing to say. But it scares the crap outta me. I mean, I fuckin' _mean_ it, y'know?"

"I know. You kinda just said it already, actually." She buried her nose in his chest, replied with a muffled,

"It's not the same."

"I also don't say it that much either, you notice. They're the most overused words in the history of humanity." He told her. "I don't want you to say them because you think you have to, Jack. I don't want to waste it, but I don't want you to doubt it."

She turned her face out, took a breath.

"I don't. _I don't_."

"I don't either. You say it when you like. I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed her head. She counted his ribs with light strokes, one, two, three. They lay that way for a good while, just enjoying each other, the silence, the together they shared.

"Are _you_ okay with this? You _did_ have responsibilities I thought you enjoyed." He asked eventually.

"It's called a _sabbatical_. I'm on it. _I'm_ going where _you're_ going, period. We're gonna be normal - _once_ - whatever it takes, so you can shut the fuck up."

Another kiss to her head. Strong arms came down and encircled her, squeezed.

"_Stop_ it - you're gonna make me cry with all this mushy stuff."

She bit him on his stubbly chin, laughed softly. It was sweet music to his ears.

"Where _are_ we goin' anyway?"

He waved an arm to encompass the ship.

"Wherever this tub ends up."

She scooted up to look him in the face, kissed his lips a good while, then asked,

"An' then?"

"Wherever the next one goes."

She snuggled back down on him, and he sighed, tension draining from him. He was exactly where he wanted to be – and with whom.

"How long have we got?" she murmured into his chest. This was all the reality she needed.

He gathered her close again, but she was never close enough. She growled contentedly as he did it.

"As long as it takes."


	6. If Even One Survives

**TURIAN RECON PATROL**

**NEAR VAKARIAN'S BLUFF - PLANETARY NEBULA**

**BORDERING THE CASTELLUS SYSTEM**

**FEBRUARY 2188**

* * *

"_In cloud-ships the gods are wont to travel,_

_and wise cotters have legends that keep them from certain high peaks at night when it is cloudy,_

_for the gods are not lenient as of old."  
_

* * *

**THE TURIAN CRUISER _MILLENNIOS_,** fresh out of drydock and newly christened, had only been on its shakedown cruise for less than a solar day when it encountered the Reaper Destroyer on its flight vector. This Destroyer was _still active_, and the crew eagerly endorsed interception and engagement. The Captain ordered it so, and it took little time for the _Millennios_ to catch it. As they came within a few thousand kilometers of it, however, Tactical reported something exceedingly strange.

The Destroyer made no move to attack or retreat, from its movement it seemed to actually be in some measure of _distress_.

"It's broadcasting an odd signal, Captain," the Comm Tech Netian told Captain Invectus Solanus.

"What? Could there be more active Reapers out there? Contact High Command immediately and inform them we'll need…"

"Sir, no, sir – it doesn't match any known Reaper communication we've uncovered, it's just very… I'll put it on speaker, sir."

The Tech did so, and the bridge of the _Millennios_ was suddenly filled with a sound that sent shivers down spines, set teeth on edge. It was a mournful sound, almost a dirge, the feared foghorn-like blast muted into an almost-melancholy moan. Had it issued from some great beast, Solanus would have been moved to pity, sought to end the creature's suffering. This merely hardened him. There would be no quarter for that thing, no matter how lost it sounded. Palaven still burned, millions of his dead brothers and sisters demanded vengeance.

"It sounds so… miserable," his Second – Maktikus - muttered from his elbow.

"Stand by all weapons – we'll put it _out_ of that particular misery."

The Destroyer was targeted and in short order blown into small chunks.

Solanus nodded in satisfaction as the abomination came apart, but his Second didn't seem happy with the outcome.

"Ha! First blood for a fine new ship!"

"Sir, if I may, the Reaper didn't even fight back, didn't even attempt a minimum defence. It's as if it just committed …_suicide_. This whole engagement was unnervingly odd."

"It's one less Reaper monster, Second. I don't care how it dies as long as it does. That's all there is to it."

Solanus gave it no more consideration, ordered the ship to do deepscans of the area and then resume its patrol.

"Sir –" Comm Tech Netian. "Another signal, no… _several_. They're the same as the Reaper we just destroyed." Again he put it on speaker, again that unnerving moan, but layered now, multiple moans, all crying at once.

"Spirits, that's disturbing." Second Maktikus muttered. "Widescan of the immediate area – _now_!"

It took no time at all. A tactical map replaced the Galaxy map before them. Red blips slowly drifted through a representation of the system. There were dozens of them. Unknowingly, the _Millennios_ had chased the Destroyer right into the middle of a small Reaper fleet.

"Stand by all shielding and weapons – rig buoys and distress beacons – alert High Command that we…!"

"Captain – look…! They're not doing anything. All are reading as powered and active, but they're all just …listless. It's as if they don't even see us."

"Withdraw to the system's edge and contact the nearest fleet division. We have a perfect opportunity to destroy a large number of these things."

"What should we say about the Reapers' behavior, sir?"

Solanus juddered his mandibles in amusement.

"That we have easy pickings, Lieutenant. The scientists can dissect them after we're done." A nod, and the signal was sent. "Prime us for heavy action and ready yourselves for victory!"

"_Aye!"  
_

* * *

**CAPTAIN VENIUS ATRUROS** of the turian dreadnought _Heroes Amassing_ was a cautious and meticulous officer. He did not simply rush into a battle without proper foreknowledge. He knew the Captain of the _Millennios_ was new and eager, straining at the lead to prove himself and his new ship. He couldn't blame him, he was young once, too. The transmission they'd received was unnerving to say the least, but not as unnerving as Solanus' boastful announcement that the _Millennios_ was about to engage several _dozen_ yet-active Reapers on its own. Only that had prompted the _Amassing's_ dash across the system.

Two hours after receiving the transmission, the dreadnought came upon the _Millennios'_ last known location ready and prepared for an intense fight…

…but found only the wreckage of a dozen Reapers, from _Sovereign_-class monsters to insect-like Destroyers.

Of the _Millennios_, there was no sign.

No ion trace, no weapon-fire residue from its new cannon, no engine emissions or debris from its possible destruction.

All that remained was a small turian beacon, initially missed in the eezo haze left by the gutted Reaper hulks.

Brought onboard, the beacon was unlocked and its message decoded.

It was a voice recording, turian, but like none no one on the ship had ever heard, a voice like the stab of an ice pick in the eye.

It said only two words:

"_They come_."

* * *

**TWO DAYS LATER**, a turian lifepod was discovered orbiting a new asari science station monitoring the Galaxy's edge and the Void beyond, just out from the Artemis Tau system. How the pod arrived unnoticed was never uncovered. It had simply... appeared. In it, quite dead, his skull pulverized in his flesh and his brain liquefied, was Captain Invectus Solanus, young veteran of the Menae Front. There were no logs. There was nothing in the pod to suggest any kind of violence. Solanus was sitting upright in his harness, his face composed.

The _Millennios_ was never found.

* * *

**CRESCENT NEBULA**

**ZELENE SYSTEM**

**PLANET NEPYMA**

**LATE FEBRUARY 2188**

* * *

**THE _EMERALD DAWN_** was discovered by a passing salarian scout ship on the patrol for Reaper hulks, its empty bulk in orbit of the planet Nepyma.

Scans of the ships turned up unsettling data that could not be accounted for – the _Dawn_ had been commissioned and built at the Jovian Dockyards in 2175, yet the age of the materials suggested the ship was older than that – _much_ older – on the scale of almost _a hundred years_ older. It was if, and this was the ridiculous part, the ship has somehow gone back in time. From crew and passengers of three hundred, only seven mummified corpses were found, four crew at their stations and three passengers in their cabins. Age analysis showed they had been dead for a very long time, nearly a century, which all personnel of the dispatched forensics teams agreed was also completely impossible.

Neither Shepard, Jack or Grunt were found, and they could not be accounted for – no personal effects had been left behind, but all ship stores had been left intact. Re-priming the engines and the ship's main computer yielded reactivation of systems, but the ship had no eezo core, and none could be found, nor residue that indicated on had ever existed. Where eezo stores should have been, they found tanks of deuterium, anti-matter packets in intricate magnetic containment, and a gravity-powered drive core the likes found only in fiction.

Their investigation concluded, the forensics teams left to study their evidence. Engineering teams remained to study the unknown but revolutionary technology that had somehow replaced the mass effect core. Highly detailed, extremely intricate and intensive scans were made. The data was dispatched on heavily armored remote drones to Alliance Command.

Upon attempting to "fire up" the engine, the last transmission said something about a 'cascade failure and a coolant breach'. The _Dawn_ promptly detonated and tore half the atmosphere of Nepyma from the planet, burning a swathe of the surface five hundred kilometers in diameter.

For fear of 'disheartening' the populace, and to keep the inexplicable anomalies of the ship quiet until the collected data could be studied, it's loss was kept completely secret.


	7. Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

**RANNOCH**

**TIKKUN SYSTEM**

**PERSEUS VEIL**

**APRIL 2188**

* * *

"_There was a night when winds from unknown spaces whirled us irresistibly _

_into limitless vacuum beyond all thought and entity…"  
_

* * *

**IT WASN'T MUCH OF A HOUSE.**

Not yet. She had all the prerequisites for a house, frame, rooms, filtration, plumbing and power systems. A kitchen, a living area, an entertainment centre. A room to clean herself and eliminate waste, her bedroom with its single indulgence – a large slingbed, with plenty of room to roll about on. The house was spare, Spartan and mostly empty.

It wasn't, she'd thought, a _home_ yet.

Surveying it one morning, Admiral Tali'Zorah Vas _Normandy_ Nar Rannoch knew that old habits would be _very_ hard to break. Quarians had a reputation for being able recyclers, hoarders, and thrifty to extremes, and the idea of filling it with furniture and things, so-called 'necessities' still ran against her grain. Her home looked enormous to her, although it really wasn't. By almost any other standard, Tali's house was modest, but to her it was already three times the space in which she'd ever lived on the Flotilla, and she felt a little embarrassed by what she considered extravagant. She figured a great many other quarians would have this 'problem'. Quarians of three centuries ago lived much more… expansively, if the remaining structures were any indication. Quarians were used to using every last centimeter of space as efficiently as possible. Large spaces made them uneasy.

She was returning from a survey of Nav'Pallock, one of the old cities in the North, still mostly uninhabited. Geth wanted very little to do with the old cities, did not require farms or farmland, and the quarians as a whole had been astonished by just how much of Rannoch and quarian civilization the geth had preserved.

It had raised a great many questions. Old texts and accounts of the geth Uprising – what they called the 'Morning War' – spoke of devastation on a massive scale, cities burning, whole swathes of the planet scorched and smashed, the geth grinding quarian corpses under their heels with a machine's cold contempt. Every quarian child was taught this tale, was told that when Rannoch was regained, it would take so very long to rebuild.

That, it turned out, had not been _entirely_ accurate.

Two Northern cities _had_ been completely destroyed, both by ancient nuclear fusion bombs, but those had both been deployed _by quarians_. Those two cities had been cleared away, the land cleaned and replanted. All other cities on the planet were clear of debris, quiet, clean and all infrastructure intact, albeit with geth touches and innovations.

There were cenotaphs outside every city, built by the geth, all efficiently listing all quarians killed. Some it horrified. Others it shook. Many began reassessing both the geth and their history, and what was turning out to be a rather great deal of self-serving propaganda.

The planet had been cleared of the rubble of war, cleaned of the dead, and great and conscientious care taken with what had remained. Huge sections of the planet had been cultivated, and that cultivation automated. Food would be no problem, not at all. Some surveys suggested that there would even be massive surpluses, enough to _export_.

Rannoch was, frankly, ready to be occupied, and by all accounts had been for quite some time.

The geth had begun construction of a new megastructure, centered on a largely uninhabitable – by quarians – mid-sea continent once called "_Arra'tanedas_", literally 'nowhere remotely livable', and as yet, had very little interest in where the quarians took up residence. There was _more_ than enough room. The planet had once housed billions, and the majority of those spaces had been rebuilt over the centuries, requiring only reactivation of facilities and power. Seventeen million quarians, homes for millions upon millions and none were starved for choice. Most, however, petitioned the Conclave to pick a city for the majority, and those who preferred could go where they wished after.

It turned out that Rannoch was one of the very few planets in the Galaxy to weather the Reaper War more or less intact. Already, before even the quarians had begun to settle, there were requests flooding in from turians, humans, asari for immigration. That was another matter altogether, and ancient prejudices among the quarians remained – many remembered how the other races of the Citadel spurned them in the early days of their exile, and how long it lasted, and how much prejudice remained. There was a growing consensus that Rannoch remain for quarians only, massive space and viable empty cities notwithstanding.

"Quarian populations won't stay small for long," ran the credo. "We need it for ourselves." The geth, when asked for their opinions, seemed to be of the bent that 'organic problems were for organics to solve', which didn't really help, but there was an undercurrent that, if the quarians thought they were now back in charge of the planet, they were sadly mistaken, which _really_ didn't help. The geth made certain to relate to the returning quarians that they were more than welcome to resettle and call Rannoch their home again – _but. _Though not explicitly spelled out, the intimation was that the geth would have a definite say in how things went, as much help as they were at the moment, and that any ideas that the quarians would, as Daro'Xen had once put it "return as the masters' should be _forgotten_, and the sooner the better. Again, it was never put implicitly, but it was hanging in the air:

The quarians would treat the geth as _equal partners_, or they could stay in space.

So far, Tali was happy to say, it was a partnership that seemed to be working out to a mutual benefit. How long it lasted was anyone's guess.

Stepping from her transport, Tali looked her new home over, pulled her bundles from the car and approached her front door. A low wind moaned from the canyon a few kilometres away, a trilling note like a bone _t'mali_ – an ancient quarian flute - she liked. Taking advantage of the wind, she stopped, pulled her recently-purchased chimes from their little box and hung them by her door. They tinkled pleasantly and she nodded to herself, satisfied.

Entering the house and closing the door behind her, even with the pressure seal, she could still hear them, was glad. She as yet didn't like silences, figured that was another facet of their Exile the quarians would have to adapt to – quiet times. Leaving a trail of various objects in their places as she moved through the house – small knickknacks, tools, groceries in her small kitchen. Her suit, linked with the house computer, informed her that the scrubbers had finished, her air was clean, and Tali pulled her hood down, popped the seals on her faceplate, it taking considerably longer than it had been portrayed in popular media, particularly the supposedly-biographical recountings of the last several years.

She often wondered why it was shown that all a quarian had to do was reach up and pull it off – ridiculous. If it were _that _easy, a reasonably solid blow would pop the thing off, which would have done no quarian any good ever. She assumed it was just a media expediency, as no audience was going to sit through the decoupling process it took for her suit to analyze and match the outside air, slowly introduce it into the suit, and _then_ release the hard suction seals. She ran a hand through her short hair, again amused by the media depictions of she and her fellows. _Long_ hair under _their_ suits? The idea was idiotic. Long hair needed to be kept clean, and resources on a quarian ship – up until recently, at any rate - were scarce enough without the luxury of caring for something as resource-consumptive as long hair. When, she wondered, _did_ they think quarians had the water reserves to shower and wash great masses of useless hair? A quarian suit was efficient – a true marvel of engineering – but even it could only do so much.

_Some people and their fantasies_, she chuckled to herself. Reality was _far_ more interesting.

Maybe, one day, when she could live without her suit on a permanent basis – maybe then she'd consider it.

Tali took a deep breath, enjoying the actual air, enjoying the faint flinty smell of the desert outside. A quick one-two on the house computer and her kitchen busied itself with creating her lunch. Putting her faceplate on its cradle, followed by the rest of the helmet portion of her suit, Tali set it to cycle and clean itself, and run diagnostics on the geth program that was helping her 'adjust' to Rannoch. The first two weeks she'd tried it she had _felt_ horrendously ill, but hadn't been really, and the sensation had not lasted. Now it was an almost subliminal thing, her body adjusting, the time it took to cycle through taking off her suit shortening with each 'adjustment'.

Many still refused the service, as resentment against the geth yet ran deep. In the more conservative camps of quarian opinion, it was considered tantamount to 'cheating', almost a collaboration – in a rather negative sense – with the geth. Tali understood the sentiment, but she also knew that the sooner the quarians overcame both that particular prejudice and handicap, the better. She had hoped to provide an example of how safe it was, but, unlike apparently the rest of the Galaxy, her reputation wasn't _quite_ as high among the rest of her fellow quarians.

Politically, hawks like Han'Gerrel and Daro'Xen were climbing rapidly in influence – only _now_ they were all for strengthening ties with the geth – all that 'mutual benefit' nonsense they spewed now when pre-war it was nothing but 'total annihilation of the machines' would satisfy them.

How quickly attitudes turned when the thoughts of massive military and political clout took hold! There was no doubt Tali knew, that allied with the geth, and despite the losses sustained in the battle for Rannoch and the subsequent joining Sword against the Reapers; that combined, the quarians and geth yet had the single largest fleet in the Galaxy. The other races had sustained far heavier losses, and she knew there were undercurrents of age-old resentments at play in the new Rannoch government – at least on the quarian side of it.

She found it strange – the geth adhered to their agreements and treaties with the rest of the Galaxy to the letter – through the so-called 'Legion Concord' - but the quarians seemed only to look on their newfound strength as a pathway to avenge past wrongs – real or imagined. Despite the fact that the geth had already stated that they considered themselves a 'separate nation', and _not_ as simply an adjunct to any quarian political maneuvers. It was one fact (of many, she thought) the hawks chose to ignore, flush with victory as they were – because of Legion and Shepard the geth were literally 'sworn to benevolence' as Zal'Koris has so eloquently put it – and unlike organics, machines kept their word.

Tali herself was torn, politically. She'd been too close to it, as it were, and believed she could see both sides of the issue. She knew, through her experiences on the _Normandy_, with Legion, under the influence of Shepard (_something she mused should be considered a phenomenon in itself_) that the political machinations of Gerrel and Xen would only cause trouble down the road, but not for anyone but themselves. She wanted her people to have more influence, and she'd be lying if the idea of getting some of their own back didn't appeal to her.

Tali also knew that causing even more resentment against themselves was not the way to achieve any lasting influence in the greater Galaxy.

At the moment, the biggest argument amongst the members of the Conclave dealt with the 'reward' the Council had offered for the quarians help during the War – the reestablishment of the quarian Embassy on the Citadel – even vague rumours of a possible seat on the Council itself. Some thought it far overdue, some thought it insulting; Xen calling it a 'fear response' on the Council's part, but Tali knew it was a large step of reconciliation on the Council's part and as sincere as they could make it. She also knew her people would never get anywhere by being arrogant. That's what had caused all the trouble in the first place.

Tali's kitchen computer chimed, her lunch prepared, and she sat in the comfortable near-silence and ate, Rannoch's orange sun slanting pleasingly through the windows. Political ambitions and machinations aside, she knew a great new chapter was opening in the quarian story, and she was glad to be there to see it begin, and had in many ways shaped it to its present disposition. It wasn't perfect, but nothing ever was – and she'd have been rather suspicious of it if it had been.

Tali sighed, called up her daily planner, checked her mail – several requests from Shala'Raan, several from the community committees she'd volunteered for, one she had been looking forward to - and one from Palaven.

_Garrus_.

Another wish for her continued success and another hope there were no hard feelings. She sent him _another_ quick thanks and _another_ "don't be silly" reply, dismissed him from her mind.

Shipboard 'romances'.

She wondered if she could even call it that. "Port in a storm", perhaps was more accurate, there being no real chance for it. She and Garrus were too driven in their own ways ever to find a quiet middle ground for any kind of relationship – so, they parted, still friends, and she had no regrets. That had been several months ago.

Truth to be told, Garrus had issues and baggage Tali really hadn't wanted to be tied into, there was no real future with him, no matter how much she respected him, no matter how much real affection she possessed for the driven sniper. He was so… _turian_, and Tali didn't pretend she knew how to work with _that._

She was not the girl on Pilgrimage that had neither seen nor done anything, no longer impressed by the shiny or moon-eyed being surrounded by heroes, nor had she been for quite some time. In many ways, Tali was as much a veteran as any actual soldier, and her mindset reflected that - matured, ever-so-slightly cynical, clear-eyed. She was her own woman, experienced and tempered by war - and _she_ would define how her own life would be led.

Tali opened the next, smiled broadly.

In the chaos of war, people die. This is an inescapable fact. In the chaos of war, people are also _reported_ dead when they, in fact, were not.

One could have imagined the surprise when, reported as having heroically died, _Kal'Reegar_ Vas _Dalen's Fire_ Nar Rannoch _survived_ Palaven.

It should be related that he actually _barely_ survived Palaven; having successfully secured the critical communications relay, he and only one other quarian, Tenna'Nah Vas _Star Needle, _managed to drag themselves to a reasonably defensible position, and await the reinforcements. His suit severely damaged, Reegar badly injured, he'd kept the mortally wounded Tenna on her feet until they'd been secured. Knowing she was finished, Tenna'Nah cannibalized her own suit to repair Reegar's. The krogan reinforcements had been impressed when they saw the two metre high pile of husk bodies, stacked like barriers. The quarians had not budged a centimeter. Reegar was found two weeks later, his identity unknown, his suit barely functioning, every reserve gone. Lost in the pandemonium after the destruction of the Reapers, he'd lain in an turian field hospital for several more weeks until conscious enough to identify himself.

He'd returned to Rannoch – his utter astonishment at the developments here completely understandable – to a raucous hero's welcome.

Some had even taken to calling him the "quarian Shepard". He took it as a supreme compliment.

A week later, he'd called her, left her a short message of greeting and regards.

She'd contemplated it for about five minutes, and then called him back, invited him for a meal.

Two weeks later, they had linked suits. A week after, they touched _without_ the suits.

Tali couldn't remember when she'd felt better – or happier.

The email was a request to see her later in the day, if she wasn't too busy. It was sweet, gallant and somehow still formal. It was so like him.

Yes, absolutely, his company would be fine. She dashed off a quick reply and got an almost immediate response, smiled. Her day was looking up.

She opened the first letter from Raan and almost choked on her lunch. She read it carefully, not believing a word, then read it again, and then read and reread the three that followed it.

The offer of the quarian Embassy was legitimate and ratified. The geth, if they were approached at all, would be dealt with separately. It would not happen right away, perhaps for many years, but the Council had intimated that, eventually after Reconstruction, the quarians _might_ be offered a position on the Council itself. There was nothing definite, and the subject was forbidden to be broached in public, but it had been hinted at as a distinct possibility. Tali was to return to the Conclave Chambers as soon as possible. All the Admirals were meeting to discuss their next step: choosing an official quarian Ambassador.

Tali finished her lunch, went calmly to her sleeping chamber, peeled herself out of her suit, threw herself into the refresher, was stepping out just as Reegar arrived. He let himself in.

Feeling a bit brazen, Tali stepped out with a towel barely around her, smiled around the door. Reegar was eying her faceplate.

"It's an idea," she told him, a purr in her voice. He let out a short laugh, popped the seals on his own, sat it in the cradle next to hers. His eyes narrowed as he looked back at her, but a smile was on his lips.

"You shouldn't take unnecessary risks by wandering about like that, Ma'am," he told her. "Anything could happen to you."

The scar on his face, received on Palaven – one of many – crinkled when he smiled. He had a strong face that she liked a great deal, with high cheekbones and a firm jaw, generous lips. Sandy hair peeked out from under his cowl, which after a moment, he peeled back.

"Any_thing_?" She arched an eyebrow. "Sounds …intriguing."

Reegar chuckled. _His good fortune_, he told himself again for the millionth time. Having admired her from afar as a young man, rekindling the attraction after Haestrom, he going to bat for her against the admirals at her stupid trial, well, even with that, he never thought she'd look at him twice.

"My good fortune," he told her, looking out the window. "This is a great spot for a home."

"Yes," she told him from her bedroom. "I thought it perfect." A pause, a saucy, "It's a little lonely, what with the slow-witted staring out of windows at dust when I'm in here _cooling off_."

Reegar's smile broadened, and he stepped into her bedroom to see her languorously draped on her slingbed. He tucked his arms behind his back.

"A quarian First Strike Marine is always ready, Ma'am. But we take nothing for granted."

Tali rolled over to face him, face composed and serious.

"_This_, Kal…" Her tone leaving no other interpretation. "…you can take for granted."

Reegar wasted no more time.

* * *

Afterward, feeling far more relaxed, Tali stepped back into the 'fresher and then proceeded to dress in something a bit more formal.

"I'm curious," she asked him, adjusting the undersuit that regulated her temperature. "What did they call you when you were young?"

"You mean, did I have a nickname?" Tali smiled at him, nodded. He looked faintly embarrassed. _She knew it!_

"Let me guess."

"I'd rather you didn't." Her smile was broad.

"'Eager Reegar', wasn't it?"

He coughed discretely into his hand.

"No comment."

Tali laughed, came back, kissed him heartily.

"It suits you."

Reegar coloured, and she laughed harder.

"I'm blaming you. Let's just keep this between the two of us, no?"

"I can be bribed."

"_That_ I will definitely bear in mind. Is there something I should know?" He pointed at her formal attire.

"Conclave business. The largest annoyance of being an Admiral is all the piddling details they don't tell you about when they offer you the job."

She tightened her innersuit seals, that regulated waste removal and cleansing, also acted as a barrier against infection.

"We're a power again, Kal. The Citadel Council has returned our embassy. They want us to send them an Ambassador."

"It should be you," he told her without hesitation, rising and retrieving his own suit. "No one better for the job, no one a better face and voice for the quarian people."

"Don't be ridiculous," she told him, pulling on her outer suit, with its armor plating and external sensors. "I'm a mediocre Admiral at best and a terrible diplomat. I'd rather just be a normal quarian."

"That's impossible." He told her, affection in his voice. She was warmed to hear it, suddenly found herself wondering when she'd gone from liking and admiring him to… this… whatever this was. She_ liked_ it, whatever it was.

"Good luck regardless. It's a great thing for us, but I admit some suspicion. We've been wanderers too long, and we've made too many enemies, not all of them obvious."

"How could giving us our embassy back be anything detrimental?"

Reegar tightened his seals, shrugged into his suit to make it fit better, an old soldier's habit.

"It makes us beholden to the Council, for one thing. It draws us into the politics and machinations of the other races. I'm not paranoid… " he chuckled. "…well, any more than any soldier is, but I think I preferred when we only had to answer to ourselves. I may be speaking out of turn, but our current crop of Admirals only see the possibilities of their own personal power." He sighed, waited for his headgear to finish cycling. "It's not my place to say."

"You have every right to an opinion. You've certainly earned it."

"Thank you."

"I think, if you don't mind," she began, "I would like it very much if yours were an opinion I could count on."

"I am at your command. Ma'am."

Tali stared at him for a moment, then laughed lightly, shook her head, kissed him.

Yes. She liked this feeling very much.

"Where will you be?" She asked.

"The new Military Academy. I'm a 'guest speaker', whatever that means. Me and a Geth Prime." He shook his head at that. "Did you know they're starting to adopt names?"

"Oh, I hadn't heard. What kind of names? Are they like quarian names?"

"Not quite. This Prime I'll be 'speaking' with is named 'CSventh' – or 'Coordinator of The Seventh', or so I'm told."

"Interesting." Tali replaced her mask, the seals hissing to secure it. "_Legion did give them sentience and individuality. It only makes sense they'd give themselves names. I'd not even considered that they would. Isn't that strange?_"

"Not really. They never really merited names before." Reegar replaced his mask. _"It will be odd working with one. I've spent my entire life trying to find ways to kill them."_

"_It's a new universe, Kal. Things are going to change in ways we can't imagine. If I have my way, the quarians will be an important agent of that change."_

Tali and he left her house. Her chimes tinkled behind them. Dust swirled around their feet.

"_If anyone can assure that, it will be you."_

"_I appreciate your confidence in me, Kal. Can I see you later?"_

"_Anytime you'd like. My engagement lasts until sunset. I'm free after that."_

"_Please come back here when you're done."_

"_I'd be happy to,"_ He opened the door of her car for her. His was parked just to the side of hers. _"I'll even bring us supper. Olev Vas _Nimbin Volan_ has opened a restaurant, if you can believe that. He's already using local produce. I hear it's quite good. Feeling a little adventurous?"_

"_That would be perfect."_ More real food. No paste. _Real food_.

He nodded, closed the door and proceeded to his car. Wasting no time, he was in the air and soon out of sight.

Tali started her own car and was on her way shortly after.

After three hundred years, an honest-to-goodness quarian Ambassador to the Citadel. As the red rock of Rannoch passed under her, she pondered the coming Conclave. Picking an Ambassador would be no easy task. Personally, Tali was inclined to vote for Zal'Koris - a moderate in that position was a much better choice than any she could think of – especially when he was more concerned with preserving the peace and getting their people back on Rannoch and back into some semblance of 'normal' living – whatever that might be.

If Zal'Koris refused, then Raan, most definitely. She couldn't see anyone else in the role, Kal's recommendation aside.

Tali hoped the decision wouldn't take long. She was already looking forward to her night and sunset meal – and whatever came after.

She had a home to build.


	8. Lost Travellers

**ASARI REFUGEE CONVOY INCIDENT**

**THESSIA**

**PARNITHA SYSTEM**

**APRIL 2188**

* * *

**OFFICIAL REPORTS LISTED THIRTEEN SHIPS**, including five heavy transports full of refugees from Thessia, five thousand passengers in each, all last seen making their slow way to the system's Relay junction, one of many convoys plying the route between Illium and a still-devastated Thessia, returning supplies and people to serve in the rebuilding efforts. As the ships hit the Relay, each entered the stream and vanished, to reappear later in the Parnitha System. The five heavy transports, however, were not in the convoy, were found several hundred thousand kilometers further afield, drifting.

The ships were empty. Extensive scans showed that every living thing aboard, down to _microbes_, had vanished. Instantly warnings went out to avoid the Parnitha Relay, until it could be determined how such a malfunction could have occurred. It would hamper Thessian Reconstruction, but there was no choice. After two weeks of extensive examination, tests of remote drones through the Relay, traffic was finally allowed to resume. There were no more incidences of missing people, yet somehow twenty thousand refugees had simply vanished as if they had never been, in an accident that had never before happened with any Relay on record. It was baffling and unnerving, yet the Relay was essential, and had to be risked.

Then, on Thessia, reports came in that the refugees _were_ where they were supposed to be, families that had been told of their disappearances were reporting that their loved ones were arriving home, no worse for wear, none however remembering just _how_ it had happened. All were in perfect health and psyche scans showed no abnormalities.

There was one discrepancy, but this would not be seen until much later.

Out of those twenty thousand asari refugees, every one over the age of seventy-five - maiden, matron or matriarch - were soon to discover themselves _pregnant_.


	9. Going Home Again

**ILOS**

**REFUGE SYSTEM**

**PANGAEA EXPANSE**

**JUNE 2188**

* * *

"_When the last days were upon me,_

_and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water torturers _

_let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victim's body, _

_I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. _

_In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, _

_and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods."  
_

* * *

**NAHJR KOLST'LLUM L'M'SKRET nhor JAVIK,** Avatarii Imperator and Commander of the Last Shock Legion of the Prothean Grand Empire gazed at the rust-flecked landscape of Ilos and pondered his current situation.

It had not been a good day. Interminable delays at Relays, as refugees and warships and heavy supply traffic made even the most simple requests gargantuan labours, he having to constantly use false identities supplied by the Shadow Broker to even move from world to world lest he be molested by media and 'fans' - whatever _they_ were. Both his temper and mood had been stressed to volcanic levels.

Yet, despite it all, he had hopes for this world, despite how it appeared.

This planet was clearly dead, long stripped of anything his people had brought here, only their empty structures mute witnesses to former greatness. Yet, he had to see it for himself. Despite what he'd been told, despite the records of the _Normandy_ and its crew, he took nothing at anyone's word. Once, as on Eden Prime (_in his day called_ Ianniannos), thousands of his kind had fled here to sleep and hide - and although they like his comrades had died - _hope_, he discovered, was the one thing he had left, the one thing he had regained from this cycle and its warriors. It was not inconceivable that, in the vastness of this Galaxy, waiting to be discovered, more of his people had survived, only waiting to be reawakened.

He refused to believe he was all that was left, the single last living representative of a once-great species. Extinction did not sit well with him. If the creators of the Reapers could survive the eons, his people _certainly_ could.

To his mind, his reasoning was sound, although many doubted him. They were not Protheans. Though learned, they did not know the ways of the Prothean mind, could not know the technology as he would know it, not know how his people thought, or what they might do, how they would accomplish and hide their sanctuaries.

If any other Protheans remained alive in this Galaxy, he would find them.

Following the path blazed by the crew of the _Normandy_, Javik found the elevator into the Archives, descended into the catacombs, the tombs of the last of the great minds of the Imperium.

How far they had fallen.

How much the Reapers had destroyed, yet, how great a tribute to the skills and genius of his race that what remained yet remained as it did, that their legacy was not lost, that even dead, his race had confounded the Reapers through Vigil, through the Conduit, through their understanding of the Relays, which even the races of this cycle did not possess. Despite all the great efforts of Shepard and the rest_, his_ people were, in a very significant way, responsible for the destruction of the Reapers.

It was, as he'd been told, likely a foolish mission, a waste of time. Yet, it was his time to waste, his life to expend in the search. Fifty thousand years out of time, he had no place to call his own, his homeworld long ago blasted and recolonized beyond all recognition. He had nothing to lose, having lost everything there was to lose already, long since. If he discovered nothing, so be it – but it would not be because he didn't try.

Lit only by the dim power of ancient organic batteries, the Archives had a gloomy cast, broken only by shafts of orange light let in through gaps made from ancient fallen structure. The archeological teams that had been interrupted by the Reaper War would not return for some time. The equipment they'd left behind was inoperative, but he needed none of it.

High on either side, the empty now-coffins of five thousand scientists and support staff, silent in the gloom. Eventually, he found the dead console of Vigil, deftly disassembled it, stowed its memory nodules in a pack on his back. This era's scientists called the VI inoperative, but Javik knew better.

Moving on, Javik came to a section that had been blocked off by the collapse of ancient structure, and only a cursory excavation had begun on it. At the base of the rubble, he found the shells of inactive geth, several crushed by debris, and left where they'd fallen. It took him a moment to realize that the excavation of this area had been done by the geth themselves, and not by any organic teams that had come after.

Most curious.

If he remembered correctly, these particular geth had been led by the Indoctrinated Spectre turian Saren Arterius, and directed by the Reapers to find and use the Conduit to open the Citadel – yet, this area of the site was in the _opposite direction_ of the Prothean-built miniature Relay.

Why send geth to dig _here_?

Most curious indeed.

Javik surveyed the site for himself, taking care to avoid any further debris falls. Through some gaps, he could feel faint currents of moving air, which told him that there existed a large space beyond the rubble. Stretching high above his head, he could see the tops of the walls before him, through holes in the roof he could see that the structure behind the debris was a separate annex. Climbing carefully, he found himself on a slanting rooftop, nearly buried in soil and covered over with the detritus of a destroyed ecosystem. To his left, an oblong structure that looked for all the world like… yes. If that is what he thought it was… his excitement grew as he approached it, dug at the overgrowth. Underneath, in the dead script of his people the wall bore the simple legend of "_Caution:_ _fuel cleansing and recycle hub_" – and he exulted.

_That_ meant that he was standing on the roof of an underground _hanger_.

A hanger meant _Prothean starships_. Javik had no doubt that, if there _were_ ships under his feet, they _would_ be intact and they _would_ function. They would also have functional Prothean computing systems and databases. If fate cast him an opportune eye, they would also contain locations of other caches of desperate knowledge and survival – and possibly more of his kind.

Tracing a pipe from the structure, he found an access hatch and smiled to himself, began to dig out access to it.

For the first time in a very long time, Javik's heart felt light, he found himself humming an old battlesong from his homeworld.

It could very well turn out to be a good day after all.

So enthused by his discovery, Javik failed to notice that he was _being watched_.


	10. You Got Some Splainin To Do

**SHIMAZU-DOMINIGO CUTTER**

**_KWAKU ANANSE_**

**LINKED-ASTEROID COLONY**

**NAOSHIMA**

**AUGUST 2188**

* * *

**CAPTAIN AKILAH NWOSU SHIZUKA** was not a fan of tight spaces. She was not claustrophobic, she simply didn't like any space in which she could not turn around, and being jammed into an engine housing was not how she'd wanted to spend her afternoon. The ship's kinetic barriers had inexplicably failed, and had allowed a micrometeor to punch through the cowling and take out a fluid regulator, which caused the engine itself to overheat far too quickly and stall them just short of their destination. She reached awkwardly behind a mass of power feeds, looking for the one that turned off the fuel to the reactor so she could patch the hole. Her index finger felt a switch, and she poked it. A bank of lights flickered over her head. A whine that made her clench her teeth suddenly sprang up.

"_It's not that one,"_ a voice told her over the comm. Eisenhauer, her weapon tech.

She grunted in annoyance, tapped it again. The lights went out. The whine stayed. She tried the one next to it. Her back ached from old wounds. Cargo runs should have been less taxing than facing a sea of husks, but somehow, this irritated her _more_.

"_Wrong, too."_ He sounded amused.

"Why," she asked him, not bothering to hide her irritation. "Am I, the captain and owner of this ship, doing this when I have perfectly adept techs on my payroll?" She tried the next one. Another set of lights flickered. The noise died down.

"_That's the one."_

"I'll rephrase that," she told him, pulling a patch-kit from a pack strapped to her thigh, began to apply it. "Why am I, the _captain_ and _owner_ of this ship, doing this when I _had_ perfectly adept techs on my payroll?"

"Now, now, Cap'n," a feminine voice said from behind her. "_He's_ a dick, but some of us are where we're supposed to be. And you're the only one that fits in there."

Shizuka sighed. Katherine Jha, her engineer. Her large coffee-coloured eyes scanned the inside of the housing. A native of the megapolis Chennai, of Tamil Nadu in southern India, she was straightforward and a certified expert in pretty much anything she felt like doing. She dressed like the rest the crew, save for the dagger-shaped _bindi_ between her eyebrows.

"Katie… I hate tight spaces."

"I know, Cap. You can come out now. I've got Kensai doing an EVA to plug the hole." Kensai Pavlonius, her turian pilot.

Shizuka pulled herself out of the housing, pulled her gloves off. She reached for her jacket. On her right arm, done in white ink, a "7" stood out in sharp relief against her dark skin. Jha often wondered why she had it, but never quite knew how to ask.

"What – do we know – knocked out our barriers?" Shizuka asked as she pulled the jacket on. "I thought we had the damn things overhauled at Ventura Station before we made this run."

Jha nodded as she fired up her omnitool to run a diagnostic.

"We did. According to every single scan I've run since, they _should_ be working perfectly." She frowned. "This scan included."

"We can't move a bloody centimeter without them." Shizuka huffed.

"_We may want to find out in a hurry,"_ Eisenhauer told her over the open comm. _"We've got a turian cruiser vectoring at us."_

"The _hell_? What are _turians_ doing here?"

"_Couldn't say. But they are definitely heading to us, doing a good clip too. They're quiet. No ship idents. Nothing."_

Shizuka pushed past Jha, told her to hurry and made her way to the small control bridge. Eisenhauer, broad and bushy, gestured at the screen when she entered. On it, growing steadily larger, the familiar shape of a turian warship.

"There you go. Big as life."

Shizuka frowned a heavy frown. This was deep in Alliance territory. There was no reason she could think of for a turian cruiser to be anywhere near this sector, especially considering how stretched thin they already were – turian fleets had been ripped to shreds.

"You _sure_ they're coming at us?"

"Either that or they don't see us here. Neither is necessarily something good."

"Have you tried hailing them?"

"I'd rather you were here for that." He shrugged.

"_Now_ you remember I'm in charge." He cycled through the standard hails and they waited.

"_Hey, people..?"_ Kensai, on the comm.

"Yes, that's a turian ship."

"_Don't look at me. I'm legit._" A pause._ "I'm done. Coming back in."_

To her left, a once-dark bank of lights re-lit themselves. Finally.

"_Barriers are back online."_

"Nice job, Katie."

"_Nothing I did. I just don't get it."_

Shizuka gritted her teeth. Too many damn mysteries.

"We'll need to get a full diagnostic run when we get to the colony. The company won't like it, but it is what it is. Are we going to _make_ any money this trip?" She nudged Eisenhauer. "Well?"

"Nothing yet." The ship kept coming. Kensai stepped into the bridge, nodded at her. She gestured him to his seat.

"Let's get out of its way, at least." She went to her own station, checked her board. "Don't like this at all."

"It could be going to the colony." Eisenhauer speculated. "With all the metallic crap floating around from the mining and war, we could just be blending with the debris."

Jha chose then to enter.

"Possible. They'll notice us when we fire up."

"Let's go." Shizuka ordered impatiently.

The _Ananse _smoothly fired up and Kensai took them out of the cruiser's path. They watched it rumble by. If it had noticed them at all, there wasn't any indication.

"They would have ploughed right _through_ us. They didn't even slow a _klick_." Kensai's mandibles jittered in agitation. The ship continued on its dead-straight course for the colony.

"Uh… Boss…?" Eisenhauer turned back to her. "They're in the inner traffic lane for the colony now. They _should_ be slowing down by now."

"And?"

"They're not. Scans show they've actually _increased_ their velocity."

"_What!?_ Hail the colony!"

"I've been trying since I saw the speed increase! They're broadcasting a jamming signal – they _have_ to be – I can't get anything through!"

It didn't take long. The turian cruiser was at full speed when it hit the main asteroid of Naoshima colony. The explosion shattered it and smashed the great booms and tubes that linked the other asteroids to it. With the destruction of the cruiser, comms came back. Emergency broadcasts suddenly flooded the ship, but there was nothing the _Kwaku Ananse _could do. The comms abruptly died as the smaller asteroids collided or disintegrated due to torsional forces.

The silence on the _Kwaku Ananse_ was deep.

"What…" Kensai said after what seemed like a long time.

"Why?" Jha asked.

"Ed? Anything?" Shizuka asked Eisenhauer.

"Nothing. Just beacon pings. Maybe a couple of lifeboats. Hard to triangulate with all the debris and eezo clutter."

"Do what you can."

The _Kwaku Ananse_ spent several hours sifting the debris. In the end, they found several dozen functioning lifeboats, about a hundred people from a colony of thirty thousand. The _Ananse_ towed them all together so they could be linked. No one had any answers.

They had just linked the last lifeboat when proximity sensors pinged. They all jumped as if stung.

"What now?" Eisenhauer grunted, still shocked by events. Everyone was as edgy as hell. A quick one-two on his board identified it.

"Alliance cruiser. This one, at least, is broadcasting ship idents. Also general hails. It's the _Surat._"

"They're a little late," Jha groused. Shizuka laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Let them know what we've seen and have been up to. Send them our scans of that ship and what it did."

It turned out that the _Surat_ already knew. Within moments, teams had been dispatched to retrieve the occupants of the lifeboats. The _Ananse_ was commended for its actions. Captain Mark Evigan of the _Surat_ even called to congratulate them personally.

"Don't feel too badly," he told them. "There was really nothing more you could have done than you already did."

"I appreciate that." Shizuka told him. "Will you need us personally for…"

"I think your scans will be enough." An aide whispered in his ear. He looked vaguely surprised and then nodded. "You are _Akilah Nwosu_ Shizuka, yes?"

"Uh, I am, yes…" She wondered where this was going. She had no criminal record, well, not now, at any rate – war amnesty and all that.

"Good. As per my orders: _Commander_ Akilah Nwosu Shizuka, N7 Special Shock Forces Vanguard, you are hereby ordered back to active duty. You will turn over command of your ship to your second and report to the _Surat_. Councillor Hackett would like to speak with you. _Now_."

The shock of her crew was debatably almost as great as the turian collision had been.


	11. Ace Of Spades

**FORTUNA SYSTEM**

**AMARANTHINE**

**LATE AUGUST 2188**

* * *

**IN THE BLUE PERPETUAL TWILIGHT** of Amaranthine, one tread carefully. With land and sky almost identical in hue and shade, one could easily get lost. Pirates used this world to hide on sometimes, but many often cited the cold light, the oblique shadows and moaning winds as 'unsettling', and none stayed for any longer than they needed.

Some, however, weren't bothered at all, and this planet became a haven.

Of course, nothing lasts forever.

The pirates holed up here where typical of their breed that so infested the Terminus, and there was no need to give them anything other than a cursory note – a motley crew, most criminals of various stripes, a few techs, a few ex-grunts, a few ex-corporate security, ex-police, all murderers, of various perverse and lurid persuasions. What they called themselves is irrelevant, since they ceased to exist as an entity shortly, but for history's sake they were known as "Shackle's Shockers", led by Captain Jarvis Shackle, captain by dint of being slightly more intelligent than the most intelligent of his crew, which was not saying a great deal. His latest scheme had involved hijacking a transport full of girls and their chaperones of the Terra Nova Highland School of Anthropology – on a field trip – to hold for ransom. They were all daughters of the well-to-do, all twenty-six of them and the take, should all parents agree to the ransom, would be substantial. He'd made his demands and waited. After a while, his men started getting antsy, none having seen females in a good while, and it was all he could do to keep them in line.

Fortunately for the girls, and less so for the Shockers, the parents instead pooled the ransom money, and placed a call through intermediaries for a remedy.

That remedy was known as Winston Black, although he rarely used that name any longer.

His old comrades - gone now - had called him "_Dukkha_", a Buddhist term for suffering – a joke, as Black was preternaturally calm most of the time. Eventually, it was shortened to 'Duke', as often happened. He neither liked nor disliked the nickname. He answered to it simply out of deference to comrades he respected. He was not a Buddhist, although he admired its teachings. As a child and young man, he'd been subjected to a disease called Yager's Palsy. It was perfectly curable, but it took a long time to correct itself, and as such he was bedridden for a great deal of his youth. With little to occupy himself, he became a voracious consumer of literature.

His philosophy of life – and he believed those without one were incomplete and pathless – was a polyglot of many religions and philosophies, and he'd had a simple rule for each: if it contained that which he felt relevant to the experience of living, of life, it was to be adopted and adhered to, otherwise discarded. He claimed, eventually, to understand much and know little, which he then claimed made perfect sense.

His comrades, of course, called it "Dukism". They also claimed it made him supernatural at poker, as he never lost a game. Under his N7 designation, someone in his old team had painted an ace of spades, and Black had simply allowed it to remain. When asked, he had simply called it 'stylish' and left it at that.

Black disdained guns, although he was an expert with many. An "Infiltrator"-class N7, Black carried a metre-long sword forged from diamond-hard krogan-_mutsak_ steel with a molecular-honed edge that even kinetic barriers could not stop. Several other smaller blades of similar construction he carried like pistols. Black drew them only when necessary, and no target he'd ever been contracted for had ever escaped him.

The Alliance ships that heard the distress beacon from Amaranthine found thirty-three dead pirates and twenty-six frightened, cold, hungry but otherwise unharmed students.

They had told of a figure in black that had appeared in their midst, quietly told them to remain calm, and then locked them in. Approximately half-an-hour later, the same person had unlocked their door and told them all was well, then he vanished. Before he left, he'd handed the head teacher/chaperone a playing card.

On it was the ace of spades.

The Alliance captain of the rescue vessel kept it as a souvenir.

Winston Black was last seen on Illium hunting an 'embarrassing' asari matriarch. The matriarch would never be found again. Winston Black, the Duke, would also vanish.

But he _would_ be found.


	12. Straws and Camels

**TURIAN REFUGEE "DEPOT STATION 9"**

**GETH WATCH STATION A231**

**TIKKUN SYSTEM**

**LATE AUGUST 2188**

* * *

**FAMOUS FOR THEIR DISCIPLINE**, the turian refugees waited calmly to be processed. There was nowhere for them to go, as Palaven was yet wrecked, burning, infested with directionless husks and other creatures of the Reapers. Petitions to their fellow dextro allies, the quarians, had so far met with hemming and hawing and excuses. "We're not remotely organized to house and feed ourselves," ran the refrain, "We certainly can't provide properly for so many so unfortunately displaced."

When Councilor Valern accepted the explantion and basically told the quarian leadership "Thank you anyway", there was much turian anger… which lasted only as long as it took for Valern to ask the _geth_ what _they_ thought.

The geth found it odd that the quarians had an _excess_ of space and foodstuffs, quiescent industry and proper facilities, and promised the turians they would query the quarians for an explanation.

Three days later, several empty liveships appeared in the Trebia system, with captains more than happy to render any aid and assistance they could. Carrying as many turians as the ships would hold – temporary – and they _stressed_ 'temporary' several times, accommodation would be found on Rannoch for as 'many as possible'.

Instead of disembarking upon reaching Rannoch, however, all turians had to pass through depot stations – geth watch stations – until quarian 'immigration authorities' were convinced the turians would not 'upset Rannoch's delicate ecosystem, and bring new and unusual contaminants'. Crammed onto the geth stations – although spacious, had little in the way of amenities – the turians started to grumble, perhaps understandably.

Internal scans recorded it all. The footage taken by interior and exterior camera systems was kept secret, although that certainly didn't last. The quarians would use it as an excuse to close Rannoch off from any more refugee requests. The turians would demand answers and receive none, and relations between the two races would be strained for a very long time.

It took a few moments for it to be noticed at first, appearing as it did without sound or warning.

The figure was tall, pale, with no discernible limbs, humanoid. It was merely a seemingly-cloaked figure with a head, bowed. Internal microphones picked up no sound from it, only the sound of the turians around it, inquisitive or fearful. The figure raised its head, and its face skull-like, but with no nose or mouth, just sharp cheekbones and black pits for eyes. It did a complete turn, as to take it in its surroundings, stopped and for a moment did nothing. Some turians approached it cautiously, some retreated.

It said one short sentence, and the entire station rumbled with it.

"Negative Instance For An Invalid Function." was all it said.

It raised one cloaked appendage and lightly touched the turian closest to it.

Every single turian on the watch station suddenly collapsed.

A moment later, as if responding to some silent signal, all rose at once, jerking to their feet like spastic puppets. The turians then turned on each other; males, females, offspring, and using teeth, claws, anything they could find, they began to kill anyone turian in range. Expressions held a new horror – no one was in control of themselves – the turians were killing each other _against their will. _The figure stood silent, unmoving, and untouched in the melee.

At the end, someone pulled controls for the emergency airlock system and those turians not already dead suffocated, or were vented into space. Only then did the figure disappear, but no one saw it go.

Through it all, _quarian_ functionaries, soldiers, techs and workers were unaffected. Turians in their induced killing frenzy _went out of their way_ to avoid them.

There was no way to hide this. The quarians had linked the vid-feeds to public access as a PR gesture. The horror flashed across the Extranet. Governments sprang into action with committees and emotional discussions. Scientists were called in, ethical commissions formed, investigations by special arms and wings of various police agencies were conducted, and no less than five Spectres were sent to suss out what they could. Autopsies showed no chemicals or artificial means of coercion. There was no indication of any damage to any brain. It was not Indoctrination, it had no earmarks of Leviathan interference.

There was no official explanation why five thousand turians suddenly turned on one another in a murderous frenzy – and didn't kill a single quarian present. Careful and thorough analysis of the vid-feeds could not identify the mysterious figure who had apparently initiated the killing. It matched no known species in any accessible databases. The only other peculiarity was in the sentence it spoke. Various races watching reported that the words were in their own particular language – not translated, but in perfect idiom peculiar to each tongue. The geth reported it as machine language, as did any queried AI's.

Eventually, it became the official line that the figure was some Reaper holdover, official warnings went out and governments tried to bury it so as not to panic already stressed-to-the-breaking-point populaces.

Not that it mattered. Accusations started crawling out, suspicions and recriminations, but that was inevitable. It would only get worse.

For some, however, it was far past time to do something about it all.


	13. Your Tale, Sir, Would Cure Deafness

**EARTH**

**THE CITADEL**

**SOL SYSTEM**

**EARLY SEPTEMBER 2188**

* * *

**THE CITADEL,** seat of galactic government for countless centuries, had seen much, much better days. The Presidium had been scorched by the firing of the Crucible, many of the Wards wrecked, many hundreds of thousands of Citadel residents killed. The core had stayed intact, however, and that meant the Keepers were intact, and they swarmed over the Citadel in unprecedented numbers. The Presidium gleamed again after a year of Keeper labour, but the Wards would take longer. Even with the hordes of Keepers, the Citadel was still in pieces and a great deal of it empty.

It wasn't exactly a Reconstruction priority.

Miranda Lawson stepped onto the station, and she doubted anyone from her past would recognize her right off. Dressed in a conservative black uniform with silver piping, her only insignia a gleaming gold phoenix over her left breast, three silver bars at her throat - she could have been the CEO of any company from Noveria, or a special attaché to some high-ranking diplomat, but she was neither. Her once-long black hair was cropped short and spiky, her makeup subdued. She stopped in the dock, looked around. The place was surprisingly quiet.

A moment later, she was joined by an asari and a tall ginger-haired, rather grim-faced woman, both in the same uniform.

"Saajila," Miranda directed at her asari companion, whose facial markings resembled jagged claw marks, and who was missing a frond of her headcrest. She had an ocular implant that covered her right eye, making her look as if she were wearing an eyepatch. A scar ran through where her eye would have been, a product of the injury that took her head frond. A veteran of the so-called 'Extreme Front', directly in the line of the Reaper wave on Thessia, Saajila was a deceptively calm woman with a volcanic temper and a razor tongue when provoked. A former 'Death Mistress' commando and a powerful Vanguard-class biotic, she hit as hard as her disposition. She was twitchy and dangerous as hell, but her loyalty to Miranda was unquestioned.

"Commander?" She liked that. _Commander_ Lawson. It evoked certain… associations.

"This place is barely functional. Not that I doubt your abilities, but half the comm buoys in the Sol System are gone and the other half are barely functional. It won't be easy tapping into anything substantial."

"No, ma'am, but they are still routing data through the few embassies still open. The Alliance Fleet Wing should have everything you need. Most of the buried and/or 'classified' databases tend to be routed through military storage. With Earth in shambles, storing them up here makes the most sense." She sniffed. "No offence, but human encryption algorithms are amateurish at the best of times."

"I think Riley would disagree with you," Miranda's other companion, Ellie Crawford, said, scratching her chin, watching the reconstruction personnel go by with narrowed eyes. She was taller than either by a head.

"Riley would disagree regardless." Miranda told her. The tall woman nodded. A coating of freckles dusted her nose, and large grey eyes dominated her face. Ellie wasn't particularly pretty, and it had been something Miranda had wondered about, because with her features, she _should_ have been quite attractive. Miranda had figured, after a while, that it was the simple fact that Ellie _never_ smiled that detracted from her looks. Ellie Crawford was Miranda's heavy weapon expert – and a formidable Sentinel-class biotic.

"Let's find you a decent terminal, then. Never was a big fan of Earth." They headed to the lift, in no particular hurry, easily bypassed C-Sec checks and she and they made their way to the Embassies without hindrance. Crowds were not what they used to be, much thinner, the Presidium spare.

Many Embassies were still dark, most still in the process of being repaired. Some, like the asari, the turian, the human and the new quarian Embassy were finished and functional, clean and open for business, though that business was sparse. Most would likely remained closed for some time yet. Only a few shops were open, and they had very few customers. The Citadel would take a long time to return to its former glory.

_Nothing touched by the Reapers was even remotely the same_, Miranda mused, a part of her still amazed she had survived what some had called - perhaps overly-optimistically – the Final War. People trying to grasp its scope, the unbelievable devastation, the immense slaughter – the Ultimate War, the Harvest War, the Apocalypse War… she supposed it depended on just to whom you were speaking. The enormity of what had happened had not yet completely sunk in, and she doubted it would ever be grasped in its entirety. The Galaxy was still bleeding, people were still dying in vast numbers, and for a war supposedly won, it yet went on.

Some however, as always, saw war and its aftermath as _opportunity_, and she admitted to herself that she was one of them, though her motives were a tad more altruistic than most might have believed.

_Shepard,_ she smiled to herself, _had been a terrible example_. Miranda Lawson had – and she suspected this happened to almost anyone that spent any considerable time around the man – come to see herself as a part of something much larger than her own once-narrow vision, all thanks to him. Shepard never lost his sense of mission, never allowed himself to lose his focus. His instinctual grasp of combat, his ability to move and motivate people, to _achieve_, had frankly inspired her. His goals, unlike her own past selfish ones, encompassed _ideals_, despite his reputation for ruthlessness. He discriminated against no one, he never fought a battle in anger – though his motivations may have been tinged with outrage – an honorable enemy given an honorable defeat, a dishonorable one destroyed and forgotten. Efficient, simple, effective.

It was something to which Miranda now aspired, tempering her own considerable talents with new ethics and strategies.

She was not sanctioned by any official agency, her team financed entirely out of her own pocket, and she much preferred being what she considered an 'independent contractor'.

As she considered it a personal rebirth, so Miranda had adopted the Phoenix motif for this new enterprise. Her eight person crew consisted entirely of handpicked biotics, hardened veterans, all female save for their Engineer, a bawdy Asian man with the improbable name of Angus Riley who had a preference for asari cooking and had named his combat drone "Jehoshaphat" – or 'Joe', for short. He was falsely chauvinistic and fiercely protective of his 'girls', although any one of them could have beaten him soundly were they so inclined – granted, if they could _before_ he'd hacked everything electronic they wore.

They had, since their inception, already gained a reputation for efficiency, effectiveness and ruthlessness against their foes.

On the record - they were simply a for-hire 'consulting security' outfit, a part of the much larger Tempest Enterprises, of which Miranda was sole owner and CEO, having acquired the former Lawson Rights Conglomerate from her deceased father - from her 'inheritance' of the vast Lawson family fortune – such had been her father's certainty that he would once again have her in his control, he'd never bothered with altering any of her legal rights to his vast wealth, and she took full advantage. A year of rebranding, restructuring, and she was satisfied it was going as she desired. The Lawson name was not one that had any real respect - it had become, because of the abomination of Sanctuary – a byword for atrocity.

She would change that, she vowed, whatever it took.

Informally, "the Phoenix Crew" was making the rounds far and wide. Their custom-built frigate _Phoenix_ rivaled the _Normandy_ in its sophistication, and she had spared no expense.

Miranda, deep in her heart-of-hearts, secretly loved the idea of using the Lawson wealth profligately. She knew better, but had a hidden hope that somehow, somewhere it hurt him, and hurt him deeply, petty as it sounded.

A rather elaborate network of contacts and bribery channels (_as well as legit contributions to charities and veteran organizations_) had been easy enough to create, she recruiting many ex-Cerberus operatives anxious to escape the galaxy-wide kill order on their now-defunct organization. Not everyone had been implanted, and they were keen to come out from under its shadow.

The Citadel NewsNet was up and running, the only thing dominating the headlines was the rather contentious issue of the Citadel's disposition – as to whether orbiting Earth would be its new permanent home, or if it would be returned to the Widow Nebula where it had always resided. The arguments were many and convoluted, and she doubted any firm decisions would be made, frankly, for _years._ At the moment, the Citadel was in no shape to go anywhere, nor had any of those arguments postulated how it could be towed to relay, let alone controlled going through one. The Reapers doing it and a Citadel fleet doing it were two entirely different things. Many argued that moving it was simply a moot point, and that it didn't matter where it was as long as its function remained what it had always been.

Miranda, for her part, couldn't have cared less.

"There should be a diplomatic computer access near the old human embassy, " Miranda noted as they moved across the Presidium toward it. That section was now the brand-new quarian embassy, repurposed as a nod to the quarians for their aid in Sword, and the delivery of the Crucible. A _geth_ embassy was still …iffy. She wondered if it was even necessary.

They stepped in, saw the rows of consoles. The room was empty.

"Will those be sufficient?" She asked Sajila. The asari nodded.

"Parameters, Commander?"

"Anything out of the ordinary or heavily classified. I have no doubt we'll be given all the data they think relevant, but I'd rather know everything I possibly can. Also, look for odd corporate ship movements. Freight and tonnage irregularities. Also look for any unusual cooperation between collection, cataloguing and salvage teams – especially the government-mandated ones. Most of the most curious activity so far is centered around the Relays."

With a short nod, the asari went to work, hacking the kiosk with practiced skill.

Ellie looked at her Commander for a long moment, as if deciding whether to say anything or not. Eventually, she furrowed her brow, and asked,

"We were close to that bastard batarian on Ellesmere Colony, Commander, the fractious _worm_." She paused, licked her lips. "I honestly don't understand why you just let him go."

"Priorities. When Councilor Hackett calls you, tells you things are dire and he needs _you_, you drop and go."

"But we aren't Alliance."

"And I wouldn't even be here if he hadn't run interference for me. I pay my debts."  
"You still deserve more respect than to be summoned like some lapdog. There wouldn't have been any victory in this War if not for you."

Miranda sighed to herself. This _again_.

"Ellie… you're wrong about Hackett. You weren't there when I was overseeing _Lazarus_. I'm getting rather tired of this 'mythologizing' of what I'd supposedly done. I am _not_ some mythical figure – and neither is Shepard. I didn't 'resurrect' him as if he were some silly demigod. I had no guarantees and almost failed any number of times. To me, it was just a puzzle to solve, a job to be done." She paused, looked back at Sajila. "I was a different person then – and no one to laud."

"Yes, Ma'am," Ellie conceded, but her tone said she didn't really believe it. After another few moments, Saajila nodded to herself at the kiosk and finished.

"Done. Forwarding it to the _Phoenix_. I also took the liberty of checking that info-packet you received from the Shadow Broker's drell."

Miranda just nodded.

"And…?"

Saajila frowned.

"It details a few incidences not previously reported. Odd patterns. A lot of mentions of 'quarians' and 'culpability'. All labeled 'mysterious' or 'inexplicable', like that explains them somehow." She glanced at Ellie. "Don't like it. Don't like how ambiguous this all is. It's… ominous." Coming from Saajila, Miranda's concern deepened.

"I agree." Miranda told her. "I've been assured that Councilor Hackett will fill us in." She smiled sardonically as she led them across the Presidium. "That doesn't mean that he'll tell us _everything_, however."

"But then, he doesn't _have_ to," Saajila added. "Doing it our way, that is."

"Not that we don't trust them," Ellie finished. She and Saajila chuckled. Miranda just shook her head and kept going.

Miranda was almost to the elevator that led to the human annex of the embassies, when she stopped as she noticed the quarian approaching her in some haste. A female, clothed in Ambassadorial finery, it took Miranda a moment to recognize her. She waited and the quarian stopped a metre away, nodded formally.

"Miranda Lawson," she said, her voice filtered through her half-mask. Quarians were slowly being weaned off their suits, but many, strictly for comfort's sake, had begun wearing filter-breathers. The hoods of old had become elaborate scarves. That voice jangled her name loose in Miranda's memory.

"Ambassador Tali'Zorah Vas _Normandy_ Nar Rannoch." Miranda nodded, and her companions paid closer attention at the mention of _that_ name. "Congratulations on your recent appointment."

"It wasn't _my_ idea, believe me," Tali'Zorah told her. "It's only 'Nar Rannoch', actually."

"Oh?"

"It was considered a little… pretentious for me to use 'Vas _Normandy_' as the Ambassador."

"I see. And I suppose, a _human_ ship would appear like, what – favoritism?" Tali gave her a sour look, passed over the crack.

"I wonder if I could speak with you?" She glanced behind Miranda, and Miranda motioned for them to stay put and gestured to Tali to step away with her.

"I can't imagine how I can help you, Madame Ambassador." She returned coolly, tucked her hands behind her back. She had no great love for quarians, disgusted by their stupid and ill-advised war-within-a-war that nearly drove the geth into the Reaper's permanent thrall. She had often wondered why Shepard had tolerated her on the _Normandy_ in either incarnation, as her combat record had been rather poor, with an almost 90% casualty rate for any action she commanded. Granted, her hacking ability was nearly unmatched, but command of others was not something she should ever be permitted to do again, in Miranda's opinion.

One would have thought she'd have long since been put somewhere else to keep deaths at a minimum… which, she mused, was probably _why_ Tali'Zorah had been chosen as the quarian Ambassador. She was unlikely to get anyone killed on the Presidium.

"We've been tracking some unusual movement of Alliance data, communiques with the turians and asari, and now with the geth."

"Are you _eavesdropping_, Ambassador?"

"When it comes to Alliance vessels – among others - moving in and out of the Veil – Alliance survey and salvage craft, doing it _without_ Conclave permission, then _yes_."

Miranda frowned. _Survey craft?_ She made a hand gesture, followed by a series of finger movements that Tali could not see but Saajila could. The asari casually went back to the news kiosk and rescanned the 'nets.

"I'm not a member of the Alliance, Madame Ambassador. I'm not privy to any information that…"

"The geth Quorum have been _allowing_ it," Tali told her, gleaming eyes steady. "The Conclave is a slightly more concerned. No official requests came to us. No one bothering to ask if we might have something to say about it."

"I doubt the Alliance is trying to violate quarian sovereignty, Madame Ambassador." Miranda smiled slightly. "If the geth have no concerns, why would the quarians, especially enough to illegally tap encrypted communications?" Tali gave her a skeptical look, glanced past her at her asari companion. Miranda nodded once. She got it.

"Because this is slightly more important than protocol. The Alliance ships are apparently salvaging damaged _geth_ vessels." Miranda frowned at that. That _was_ unusual.

"I can see why you would be concerned, yes. Given that geth ships tend to be simply more platforms for them…"

"Well, not anymore." Tali corrected her. The geth 'Awakening' had removed that ability from them. Now they walked ship corridors like everyone else. Their integration into systems was still far more involved than most species, but they no longer inhabited the vessels themselves. "However, if the ships were disabled _before_ the Awakening, there would still be geth that weren't upgraded…"

"And would still have active Reaper code in them." Miranda finished for her. "Definitely cause for concern, Ambassador, but I still don't see how I can…"

"There have been several inexplicable events in the last several months. The unfortunate incident in our space with the turians, the disaster at the Naoshima asteroid colony, among others. They _appear_ random."

"I've heard of a few, yes. They _are _random."

Tali shook her head.

"I would normally agree with you. However, the Alliance, the geth and the turians disagree. Several Spectres have been pulled to investigate these incidences exclusively."

"Do they suspect Reaper influence?" Ellie asked. Tali blinked, shook her head.

"No. Every reported encounter with Reaper ships in space all say the same thing – the Reapers are committing suicide."

"_Suicide_? That seems unlikely," Miranda protested. "Reaper ground forces attack frantically, but there is a semblance of order to…"

"This isn't conjecture, Miranda. _Every_ fleet reports this. All Reaper ships over a certain size seem to be inviting attacks – and they either don't or barely fight back. Remember, Shepard only took down their barriers, and as far as we know, Sovereign acted independently of the Intelligence for centuries."

"As far as we know."

"Our scouts and patrol vessels are showing odd traffic all along the outskirts of the Veil – and the geth are insisting they are unconcerned, but the Alliance ships are just the tip of the rod. There are asari, turian, even a few _batarian_ ships there. Not to mention Blue Suns and Eclipse craft." She sniffed. "It's certainly no coincidence. _They_ aren't investigating Reapers."

"That _is_ curious." Miranda cocked her head. The geth unconcerned about all those ships piqued her interest, but she kept it to herself. "Why not simply pass your concerns across the hall, as it were? If there are Alliance ships there, there must be a reason. If not Reapers, why the great secrecy? Surely it wouldn't be classified. I'm sure they wouldn't keep anything from you."

Tali gave her a solid "are you kidding me?" look, and Miranda mused on how much quarians were enjoying have facial expressions again.

"I don't expect _you_ to tell me anything," Tali told her. "Don't forget, I was there for your tenure as Second during our fight against the Collectors. I know you passing well." Tali turned. "I already know Hackett called for you – he told me he did."

"I see. I was on my way to see him now, actually."

"Then I won't keep you." She stopped. "Two things: one, why are there _five _Spectres on Rannoch? What are they looking for? All the Reaper husks and ship hulks have been cleared away by the geth as they're not susceptible to Indoctrination, so what _are_ they looking for? Two - Hackett may not tell you this, but Shepard is missing. He's been missing for months, and they've done _nothing_ about it."

"_What_?"

"Just that. _Nothing._ You might want to ask him why. On both counts." Without another word, Tali turned and walked away, leaving Miranda with more questions than answers.

* * *

**SHE PONDERED A FEW** of those questions on the elevator ride to the still-being-rebuilt human embassy. The space was occupied, but the polish was yet to be applied. Telling her companions to remain in the foyer, Miranda wasted no time in making her way to Hackett's office, once occupied by the long-dead Donnell Udina, now remade in Hackett's image.

The august gentleman himself turned as his secretary led her in, his dignity immense, his age seemingly heavy on him. Considering what the man had done, the burdens on him in the War, she wasn't surprised. That his appointment had met near-universal acclaim and unanimous endorsement was also no surprise.

"Commander Lawson. I appreciate you coming so soon."

He gestured to the comfortable leather chair before his desk. She sat, crossed her legs and nodded. Hackett pressed a button on his desk, lowered himself into his chair, in no hurry.

"Of course. You said 'urgent', I take that seriously – especially coming from you."

He chuckled, pushed a pad across the desk to her.

"I can understand that." He pointed to the pad. Miranda didn't reach for it. "That's for you, for after. I need your help."

"If I may, Councilor, I'm going to be blunt: _why_? I'm merely the…"

"… yes, yes, the head of a company and a security consultant. I know the line. If we're being blunt – which I prefer – you can cut the standard politic disclaimers and we'll get to the heart of the concern. I called you because, at the moment, you are one of the very few individuals not a criminal or warlord with the money and resources to accomplish what I'm going to ask of you." He turned the monitor on his desk around so she could see it, hit a key.

"This is overwatch security vid-feed of the new Niflheimr Colony in the Terminus. It wasn't large, mostly the initial wave of fabricators and surveyors. A few outside techs." He activated the feed. "This was the main conference hall. Everyone that was on the colony is there in this feed."

Miranda watched, saw a large room, designed like an old-style cinema, all seats full, scan count 350. She noticed a small number of quarians off to the side. They all had the new Rannoch-based Quaritech Corp. insignias. The discussion was about the successful completion of the preliminary survey and installation of basic services, the leader thanking the quarians for all their help. In an open space in front of the main speaker, Miranda saw what looked like a hazy shimmer, which no one else in the vid seemed to notice. A moment later, what appeared to be a figure cloaked in black, limbless, floating, with a blank face and white pits for eyes suddenly coalesced from that shimmer. The people in the hall reacted as would have been expected. The figure spoke only a single sentence.

"_Negative Instance For An Invalid Function."_

It reached to the Speaker, seemed to touch her, and everyone in the hall – except the obviously-bewildered quarians – collapsed. When they rose…

"This is the same as…" she frowned. "The same being did this to the turians?"

Hackett nodded, said, "A similar one, yes," pressed another key. The vid changed to show the interior of a turian cruiser. The same figure appeared after a few moments of footage, said the same thing as before, touched the nearest turian, and the killing began. Surprisingly, there was another contingent of Quaritech Corp techs onboard.

"That was the PFS _Unyielding Instant. _The vessel that destroyed the Naoshima Asteroid Colony. You notice the quarians were also untouched? They tried to divert the ship to the colony to get help. They obviously failed. An accident."

He called up another piece of footage. In this, what appeared to be an asari 'Haven' camp on one of their colonies. Again the same figure, the same sentence, the same enforced indiscriminate murder.

"There were three thousand asari there. Security forces that arrive after aren't affected by whatever it was that caused them to do that."

Miranda scratched her chin.

"No quarians this time?" Hackett reached over, tapped a few keys and the vid zoomed in. Again, a group of untouched quarians, this time a supply team. Miranda's frown deepened.

"What I've shown you is just the tip of the iceberg, Commander. Unlike the incident at the quarian refugee camp with the turians, none of this has been released, nor have the quarians in question been allowed to talk to anyone yet. So far there have been over thirty incidences like these – not all had quarians present, but where they are, they are _spared_."

"The new quarian Ambassador…?"

"Ms. Tali'Zorah hears and sees what we want her to, frankly. Although I can't blame her for wanting to know. If this gets out…"

"Whatever that thing is, it's sparing the quarians. That wouldn't look good to anyone."

"We can't afford this kind of division right now. We can't afford suspicion or anyone – quarians included – thinking they need to resort to more violence."

"That explains the Spectres on Rannoch." Hackett shook his head.

"I was outvoted on that one. _One_ would have been bad enough, especially with the quarians already edging into paranoia."

"The turians can't be remotely happy."

"They aren't. Nor are the asari. Fortunately, there are cooler heads in their commands than in the Conclave."

"Do you think it is something the quarians _are_ doing?" Hackett shook his head.

"If they are, it doesn't help them in the slightest. It's liable to get them all killed, especially if the Council starts to think the quarians are trying to strike while the iron is hot, as it were."

"… or they were under some other influence." Again Hackett nodded.

"At this point in the state of things, it will be shoot first, glean answers from the rubble."

"What's your assessment, Sir?" Hackett leaned back in his chair.

"I doubt the quarians are quite so nefarious and stupidly greedy, since it gains them nothing – or this blatant. All present insist under interrogation that they were as surprised as anyone. You saw how the quarians that did try to help were pushed away." Miranda nodded. "We tend to believe them. However, it looks _very_ bad. So far it has only been humans, asari and turians in these incidences. If there have been salarians affected, their security is far better than ours. Not a single report. So far."

"I can definitely understand the concern, Sir. But why not…"

"…ask Shepard?" He smiled slightly. "Shepard is also missing. The ship he was on was reported empty, along with other… abnormalities." He sighed a near-inaudible sigh. "That dossier should get you up to speed. This needs to be kept as quiet as possible. Shepard's disappearance is different enough to raise some interesting flags among our analysts. Also in the dossier. I know you have contacts and resources we don't have and can't spare. Use your own judgment, Commander. The dossier contains suggestions for personnel to recruit or interrogate."

"I see. Ex-Cerberus, deniable asset, daughter of the Sanctuary Monster. No one will really care if I happen to 'go missing' myself."

"Nature of the beast, Miranda." She blinked, paused a moment, then nodded with a wry smile.

"Suits me fine, Councilor." Hackett pointed at the button on his desk with a small chuckle.

"We'll let them back in on our conversation before you leave, shall we?" Miranda shook her head, reached for the dossier as he pressed the button.

"Thank you for your consideration in this matter, Commander." He told her, holding out his hand, which she took and shook.

"I'm happy to help, Councilor. I'll get to the bottom of this."

"I know you will."

Miranda took her leave of him, rejoined her crew in the foyer.

"Are we in deep, Commander?" Saajila asked her. Miranda led the way to the elevator.

"Deep enough."

"What's it about?" Ellie asked her. Miranda tucked the dossier into her jacket pocket, sighed.

"Saving the Galaxy, Ellie, naturally. _Again_."

* * *

**TALI CLOSED HER OMNITOOL,** frowned deeply behind her breather. She'd heard more than Hackett anticipated. She shared his concern, and was glad he was still in charge. It would be far too easy to blame the quarians for all of this. Tali also didn't doubt Miranda would look into it with all the resources and depth a "perfect" brain could muster, but she'd be damned if they'd leave the quarians out of it, especially if the situation was so potentially deleterious to quarian survival. War was the _last_ thing anyone needed. Despite Miranda's snide insinuation, Tali had not forgotten from whence her greatest influences had come, no indeed.

She pondered all of three seconds and immediately called Kal'Reegar to the Citadel.


	14. The Pathosis

**RAMNAGEO**

**TERMINUS OUTLAW COLONY**

**MID-SEPTEMBER 2188**

* * *

**SHE ARRIVED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT**. Embarking from her ship on the hill behind the main area of the colony wrapped around it's port, she eyed the lights of the town below with condescension. Places like these were more active at night, like any port of criminals and outlaws, and she noted the differences between this place and the one she knew, and she knew this one was only a façade for something much darker than simple pirates and criminals.

The Pathosis.

It had escaped or been deliberately released, but it could not, under any circumstances, be allowed to spread. Once acclimated to the various environments of this Galaxy, it would go from killing – as it was now, just small colonies and towns – to _entire_ planetary populations. A genocide where the populations would do its work for it and kill _themselves_.

With exceptions, that was. She wasn't sure why there _were_ exceptions, but it could go very badly for them as well, as populations being killed became resentful, suspicious or desperate.

A quick diagnosis on her armor revealed a small control error which she easily corrected. Her armor would likely make the assorted militaries of this Galaxy envious – it was coated on a molecular level with something the lab boys called "lapsed valences" – she had no clue what _that _meant, but it made the surface of her armor virtually frictionless, when activated. It kept any enemy from getting a grip, made the percentage of deflected projectiles go up and biotics splash off her like water on a duck. It didn't make her invulnerable, by any means, but it got her damn close, under certain circumstances.

It also kept the Pathosis from seizing her and 'conforming' her into a Vector, allowed her to combat it effectively. When activated, her built-in helmet folded out from a container on her chest and from behind her head, completely sealing her in.

In style it made her look like some ancient warrior, a series of steel-grey over-locking plates, woven together with an intricate wiring – mirrored under her skin – of the control mesh that gave her precise control over her biotics matched only by _very_ able asari matriarchs. She had _such_ precision that she could "harden" her biotic "edges" – for the Pathosis was resistant to dark energy – and give her powers cutting edges that could destroy the Vectors as well as any physical bladed weapon. Her favorite attacks consisted of her "swords"; "chainsaw" and "sawblade" attacks, the first self-explanatory, the second a palmed, head-sized singularity with hardened spiky edges that could hew through targets as named, and her flung flat hardened-edged discs that cut and ricocheted like their namesake. These were especially effective against Vectors. Her arsenal also included biotic "bolas" - chained miniature singularities that exploded when they contacted each other, a "flechette" attack consisting of a dozen biotic spikes, and a spear with a point that contained another unstable singularity that could punch the driver of an Atlas cleanly out of its cockpit.

Her particular favourite was what she called her "bowling ball" – a hardened sphere of energy (which she could also use as a defensive shield) that she could roll down a corridor to flatten any opposition – or pop open a door or ten. She could even pick locks, unzip things, flip pages, or any of a hundred other intricate tasks.

When she'd been told that she was volunteering for the augmentation, she'd resisted. Biotics were an asari thing, but she knew the best way to combat an enemy was to co-opt their weapons and tactics, to improve them, be _better_ with them. Given how many matriarchs she and her teams had humiliated and taken out, humans had done just that.

She absolutely _loved_ being a biotic, loved putting those arrogant blue bitches in their places.

It was all covert, of course. The _last_ thing the asari needed was the unhappy news their fearsome and formidable matriarchs could be matched and beaten.

She smiled ruefully into the starry sky. She was a _long_ way from home.

The warrior shook herself from her reverie and got back to the moment, palmed a scansphere and activated it, released it above her head. The little silver orb shot up to twenty metres and hovered. After two minutes or so, the probe chimed and she linked it directly to her armor's onboard computer. Yes. The Pathosis _was_ here. Dusted over everything, people, animals, plants – _everything_ - atom-sized particles of death, creating their agents - Vectors - spreading that death across inhabited worlds. This was the largest concentration she'd found so far. Kill this, and she was that much farther ahead. It would not stop it – anywhere more than a single Vector appeared, the Pathosis already lay in wait, but it would hamper its spread, and its strength. If there was only one, there was time for a populace, time for remedial action.

She knew she couldn't hesitate. It was coalescing here and there, collapsing, reforming, going through the motions that all here was as it seemed. The people it covered, and her scans showed that they had long since been infected with the Pathosis, could not be saved. They were now just the animated dead, infiltrated by molecule-sized machines that scanned them down to the atomic scale and used them as living power sources while precisely duplicating and replacing their cells. She knew that horror, had seen it before, too many times. To be transformed into a virulent replica of yourself, and not even realize it until it began to consume you.

Better _any_ death than that.

When the time came, when whatever unknown signal spread through it, the Pathosis would consume every last one and form into Vectors, which would then disperse and kill. The Cull would begin.

Once coated, there was no escape and no remedy. The Cull could only be delayed, not stopped.

Locking down her armor, she sent a mental command to the e-nodes inside her, brought her amps to full active status, and smiled fiercely behind her helmet's visor. Her one frivolity, the grinning skull painted on her faceplate, glowed as she powered up.

It all had to go. It would look bad to the universe at large, but that was hardly her concern. She remote-keyed her ship, and it rose behind her, shaped like a dark shark.

"_Standby on dispersion charge."_ She told it. Above her, ports opened on the ship's flanks, began to glow. The blast would scatter a great deal of it, give her a reasonably clean path to the heart of the colony.

"_Hit it_." The ship fired one eye-achingly white-blue blast that stopped precisely over the town's centre and detonated with a shock that caused her anticipatorily-planted feet to slide back half-a-metre.

"_Dispersion at 92 percent."_ Her ship's AI informed her. "_Good fortune."_

She didn't answer, as figures started pouring from the shadows below, came silently up the hill at her, _hundreds_ of them.

So. The Pathosis had them_ all_.

It was going to be a long, grim morning.

Without a word, she charged.


	15. Have You Heard The One About

**ILOS**

**REFUGE SYSTEM**

**PANGAEA EXPANSE**

**EARLY SEPTEMBER 2188**

* * *

**IT HAD BEEN HARD, BUT SATISFYING WORK.** He had been correct in that he had found a hanger, ships still in their berths. It had been very fortunate that neither the geth machines nor anyone else had uncovered this place. Most of the vessels were skiffs, small scouting and repair vessels, most of those barely better than hulks, never to be flightworthy again. But the one in the centre of the hanger… that one was a _warship, _the equivalent to a modern frigate class vessel, not as large, but as powerful. It had long ago been lashed down under a composite-mesh anti-static/discharge cowl, an ancient generator that had only recently - perhaps a few years - clapped out supplying power to standby systems and mechanisms meant to keep the ship intact for long-term storage – or a getaway.

The ship followed the Prothean aesthetic, armor plating in teardrop shapes, overlapping like scales, shaped like a striking fist. He'd rigged a solar array from purloined science teams before they'd returned, scavenging supplies he could use to get this beauty up and running. He had been inordinately pleased with it.

It was an _Ev'incian_-class Interceptor, called the _Far Traveler - _heavy with weapons, supplies and Prothean _food_. He'd been sorely tempted, but fifty thousand years was a long time, and he doubted if even his people's legendary stasis tech could keep it edible that long. With faint regret he dumped it. It would take the ship some time to recharge, although there was pride there that it would not take _too _long.

After a while, he tried the ship's startup, almost laughed in pleasure that it began smoothly and error-free. Around him lights flickered and strengthened, the hum of machinery and electronics, coming back, like him, after a long sleep. Fuel would not be a problem, Prothean starships used generators powered by artificial microscopic singularities, but he needed the ship's batteries charged before he could access basic control schemes. Once done, he powered the ship to full power and then checked its computer systems.

This time he did utter a gust of laughter. Its databases were _full_, maps, knowledge, entertainment long thought dead. And something else.

Where he was – it was called the "Archives" for a _reason._ Deep below the complex resided the dormant computers and massive reams of data the scientists used to crack the secrets of the Relays. Deep below, inaccessible to anyone not a Prothean, was the last of the great knowledge caches of his dead race. There could me more – more hiding places to uncover. He race may not be extinct. This was the new hope that powered him on. He refused to believe it a vain one.

With this ship, with codes he understood and knew how to bypass, he would soon have it all too. He told the ship that he was its new commander, reset it to obey him, and surprisingly, the ship knew of him, accepted his command without trouble.

He found that both puzzling and flattering, after a fashion.

With this, he was that much closer to finding them. He _would_ find them, whatever it took.

Resisting the urge to rub his hands together in glee, Javik took a deep breath, and got to work. The transfer of so much knowledge, the sifting of it, the planning with it, would take time, but time was all he had left. He could spend it.

With the data pouring into the crystal storage on the ship, Javik told the computer to look for anything relevant to his quest, and then searched through the entertainment archives. A few ancient fables, lighthearted fare, experienced in that Prothean way, but he found he could not watch for long. Too many memories he could not bear.

Perhaps someday, when the pain had receded enough, if it ever did.

It had not, he discovered, done so _yet_.

He found himself dozing after a while, surrounded by familiar sounds, familiar smells, waiting for the computer to finish, when it suddenly chimed, jolting him awake.

"_Relevant data encoded, Commander Javik. Relevant anomaly discovered via search parameters."_

Blinking, Javik sat up. "Explain."

"_Timestamp: Last Era, Conduit Realization Project: 417 days, nine hours, twelve minutes. Forensic Relay Technician Smolaan Renla. Begins."_

A feminine Prothean voice then, and Javik found himself smiling. He had missed _that_ sound more than he had realized.

"_Relay retro-engineering log 1011. I've reported my findings to Seve, but he thinks I've made a mistake and replicated the data somehow, which is giving me a false set and mirrored readings. I told him that I had run the scan thirteen times to be sure – and thorough – and there is no error. He went mewling to Totus Van like a stripling that I was somehow trying to undermine his authority. Van reassigned him to modular number sequencing." _

A small laugh. Javik found himself trying to picture her in his head based on that laugh. He stopped when she spoke again, admonished himself. Foolishness.

"_The Relay-to-Citadel switching arrays _are_ duplicated within the Lead, Secondary and Tertiary Relays. This second set does _not _contain coordinates to the Citadel. The implication should be obvious."_

Javik frowned, paused the recording. That _was_ curious. He let Renla continue.

"_If this is true, it implies that there is far more to the Relay network than we suspected. I cannot say if it will impact work on the Conduit. I doubt it. It is a mystery we will never solve, but the implications are clear. I have been directed by Van to record this on the slim hope that someday it may serve to aid the next cycle. So be it. My conclusion is that _dual_ contact and connect switches for the Citadel implies only one thing."_

Javik's eyes widened. It could be possible, yes. Javik told the computer to double its efforts, prime the ship and prepare a course back to Earth.

He and the ghost of Renla said it at the same time.

"_Two_ Citadels."


	16. First Blood

**KAHJE**

**DRELL DOMED CITY**

**"SAND DANCER'S REST"**

**EARLY SEPTEMBER 2188**

* * *

**THE AIR SMELLED OF FLINT AND DUSTY HOLLOWS,** glowed of butter-coloured rock spires and rusty sandstone. Ancient rock pillars of a dead Rakhana and its empty temples, moved at great expense, lined the great hall of the Temple of The Equal Past. Equally ancient drell priests intoned their prayers or dirges and silently shuffled through the artificial sunbeams.

Into it stepped a quarian, who moved with purpose, if not some trepidation at her situation.

Dispatched on a mission with only the barest of parameters and – to her mind the flimsiest of reasons – this particular quarian was not a happy one. If it had been _any_one else who'd requested she do this, she'd have protested in the strongest terms.

She shook her head. Not for her to question. A soldier's due was to do, win or die.

Outfitted in the very latest geth-quarian Cooperative armor, she felt better than she might have otherwise. Flexible and extremely sophisticated, it incorporated geth utility and quarian efficiency. She carried no obvious weapons, all meshed and merged with her armor, controlled by her suit and helmet controls, helped by reactive single geth combat program slaved to her nervous system. A newly-christened commander and pilot in the First Strike Marines in the new quarian Defence Forces, created by the famous Kal'Reegar Vas _Dalen's Fire, _she was, despite her disgruntlement at knowing so little proud to have been chosen by Reegar himself. She felt strong and able, and would do as ordered. _Liking it_ was not in her mission brief.

First, however, she had to find her quarry. A _human_. A "very special" human, according to Reegar.

She disagreed. There were no 'special' humans. They were all nothing but trouble in big smelly infectious packages. They were as bad as the stupid krogan.

If humans were rare on Kahje, quarians were moreso, and even a diligent priest or two looked up as one passed them in the hall.

A low and mournful song reached her as she passed a large passageway, ornately carved with drell glyphs and symbols. It sounded like a wind moaning through a deep canyon, and she stopped, listened, liking it. It died down and somewhere inside a priest began a prayer.

* * *

"_Alli'shilhaju, Keeper of The Secrets, guide this one to the haven of his own being._

_Jalim'inari, Guide to The Meaningful Lost, give this one a path through your mysteries._

_Rokor'on'hal, Bearer of the Dead, give this one's lost a sweet respite in your quiet chambers._

_Allow him care in his silence, awareness in his darkness, and the sight to shape and attend the steps of his passing."_

* * *

She found herself having taken several steps into the room beyond before she'd realized it, pulled by the prayer and the song. She mused briefly that perhaps it had been magical, because before her, sitting serenely cross-legged on the floor before a series of statues – she presumed of those named in the prayer – was the human she had been sent to find.

He was dressed in black, all cinched to him tightly. He looked slim but solidly muscled, able.

She started, when he suddenly said, very calmly,

"You are disrupting the harmony of the hall. Sit." She looked up, saw a drell priest looking at her with a steady gaze, as if waiting. She pursed her lips, and came forward to stop by the human.

"_Are you…?"_ She began, but he interrupted her with that same calm intonation.

"Have you no manners?" She opened her mouth, closed it. _Typical._ After a moment, she sat next to him, feeling vaguely foolish.

"_I – "_ a hand came up, admonishing. The song had begun again, and the prayer continued.

* * *

"_Alli'shilhaju, Defier of Lies, show us the door to where we suffer in silence._

_Jalim'inari, Weaver of Sight Beyond Sight, give this one his place to stand._

_Rokor'on'hal, Messenger of Solace, tell them we remember, we honour, we do not forget._

_Where we go we will have been, where we are we step beyond, where we seek we have already found."_

* * *

The priest bowed, and the human bowed back. She nodded, and the priest left. The human didn't move.

"Quarians are as rare as rain among the drell." He said, after what seemed like a while.

"_I'm Kassidi Vas _Raven's Fist_ Nar Rannoch. Lieutenant , First Strike Marine Squadron of the 121__st__ , Rannoch Defence Forces."_

He turned a calm square face, with dark eyes, dark skin, a firm jaw, finely-shaped lips, a slightly crooked nose, and a jagged scar on his chin that drew her eye to it. His teeth were strong and white when he smiled at her. His clothing was dark, a leather-like fabric she could not identify, a faded N7 badge on his breast. He was a lean-heavy that was not unappealing, but most humans seemed enormously heavy compared to most quarians, anyway. He had no obvious weapons, but the drell were rather strict on them under their domes, preferring to use the modified toxic weapons of the hanar, rather than anything that could breach the walls.

"I see your people have wasted no time." He said lightly as he rose, reached down to her. She disdained the hand, stood on her own. "I am Winston Black. You were seeking me."

"_You know?"_

"Not specifics. It was not hard to deduce."

She related her orders, and their lack of detail.

"Strange. Kal'Reegar is usually more forthcoming."

"_You know my commander?"_ He nodded, indicated that they were to leave.

"I do. I had the pleasure of working with him several years ago after an unfortunate incident on a planet called Haestrom. Apparently an admiral had sent them on that rather ill-advised and disastrous mission without doing his homework. As he could not go through quarian channels he called me. He is a being of principle, if a little headstrong. His word was good."

"_Should you be telling me this?"_ Cassidi was both fascinated and made uneasy by the candor of these casual revelations. Reegar had an admiral _assassinated_? She knew the one, she knew he was more a detriment to the fleet than otherwise, but an _assassination_? _Didn't that make the hero of Palaven a criminal?_

"The past harms only those who cannot learn from it." He told her. "Admiral Davik Vas _Open Sky_ was a menace, that is beyond dispute. He should never have been given command of any kind."

"_Granted. Officially he died in a shuttle accident."_

"The truth and what's official are more often in opposition than concurrence."

"_True enough."_ So. This then was the assassin. Every instinct told her to simply leave and not involve herself in what was now obviously a criminal enterprise. She was simply an intermediary, true, but if this got out… no. Do her duty. That absolved her.

"_I'm here to offer you a mission brief and your payment, if you agree to it."_

"I agree." There was no hesitation. They stepped into a bustling open plaza, drell going about their daily lives. The light mimicked the sun of their homeworld, the air the scent of open dunes, colours sandy, dusty, rusty. Some stones looked as if they'd been flecked with blood, long dried. Banners and flags of all colours and sizes fluttered in generated breezes. Real Rakhana rock lined avenues and parks. A few drell took note of the two unusual visitors, but most ignored them.

"_Just like that?"_

"Would Kal 'Reegar waste money and time otherwise?"

"_You have a point." _Her estimation of her commander, however, was dropping_. _She pointed across the open plaza. _"My ship – and your payment – is over there." _He indicated that she should lead the way, and she set off, his long-legged stride easily keeping pace.

"What can you tell me of this contract? I am assuming it involves the unfortunate incident with the turians not too long ago."

"_That's an interesting assumption." _He was sharp for a human. She'd have to tread carefully around this one.

"Well, I _can_ do basic math." He smiled slightly. "Nor is it the first incident of a similar cast. Some are growing …suspicious, shall we say, of quarian explanations."

"_I can't comment on that," _she told him, shaking her head. _"None of that was mentioned to me."_

They were halfway across the plaza when Kassidi's HUD lit up with a warning. She stopped, and Black behind her did likewise.

"_That's odd. My suit's proximity sensors are registering a massive sub-micron level increase in the local magnetic field."_

"Where?" A second and she pointed to a spot about three metres to their left. Business replaced her dislike.

"_There. It's density is rapidly climbing." _She frowned behind her visor. This was exceedingly strange. She linked her suit sensors to her omnitool, began a new scan. The inside of her faceplate lit up with numbers and windows. _"I'm also scanning a decrease in local atmospheric density – it looks like an exchange along molecular… something is using the air molecules to construct… something. This is amazing! It's literally something forming out of thin air!"_

Black was moving from her, toward the darkening haze he could now see forming. Drell were slowing to watch the odd couple seemingly reacting to nothing.

"Amazing. I am also remembering that the entity that slew those turians _also_ appeared from 'thin air'." Kassidi halted. Sensors in her suit reacted to her change in physiology, and her suit's weapons powered up. Black was about a metre away from the dark mass when it instantly coalesced into a figure both were familiar with – this one the colour of the rusty, bloody-coloured stone around them. Neither Black nor Kassidi hesitated. Black had produced a long sword from… somewhere and attacked. Kassidi fired a shot into the air, setting off internal alarms. She sent another at the figure, but it had no effect, splashing around it like a water drop on a stone.

The figure managed one word of its only phrase before Black's sword, however, bisected it neatly, and it exploded into a cloud of grey particles. Kassidi immediately thrust her omnitool into the cloud. A moment later, she was violently thrown backward, as the creature reformed. She struck a rock pillar and went down in a heap.

For a few short moments, it faced Black with its hollow eye-pits. Up close he could see it had a subtle mesh texture, small squares that seemed to constantly swap positions. In the distance, alarms hooted and droned. Internal defences started locking onto it. Black had backed out of its reach. Local police were rushing to the scene. It cocked its "head" at him slightly.

"And So," it said in a completely toneless voice as an arm appeared from its mass.

A drell constable, in his haste to do his job, got _too close_.

"_Neg_ative I-instance," the being said, the empty voice stuttering - and touched him. He collapsed, and all drell in the plaza followed, one after the other. Black was moving as the arm moved, but he was not fast enough, yet he severed the limb and had cut neatly through the entity again as it began the rest of its sentence. This time, the figure did not explode into a cloud. Three pieces fell to the floor.

"F-func_tion_," was all it said as it collapsed. It then seemed to form a grey gel-like substance that rolled itself into tiny glass balls that shrunk until they could not be seen. Kassidi had regained her senses and came to Black, her omnitool flared again. He admired her presence of mind.

"Are you injured?" He asked her. She shook her head, waved it off, kneeled by the faint stain the creature had left.

"_No. I was just dazed. That thing – whatever it is – is still here."_ She swept her tool over the stain.

"What do your scans reveal?" Drell police were beginning to swarm the area.

"_Later."_ She re-tuned her omnitool. _"It's inert, if that means anything."_ She moved to the fallen drell constable, scanned him. _"He's alive."_ She moved to another fallen. _"So is this one."_

They said nothing else as police began their inquiries, and after a reasonably brief interrogation of only a few hours, they were released. All the collapsed drell were alive, but all were paralyzed. Not great news, but certainly better than a massacre.

* * *

**AFTER,** in Kassidi's ship, she fed her omnitool data into its computers. It was quiet in the ship. Kassidi appreciated that Black didn't seem to want to talk much, unlike most of the humans she'd met before. They never seemed to know when to shut up.

Behind her, he sat calmly, reading through the dossier sent by Kal'Reegar. He was mildly surprised to see an official Conclave seal on some of the items. Black Ops. His game.

"You were impressive in the square," he told her, after a while. "Quick thinking indeed."

"_Yeah. You were a bit quicker than I was."_

"I would not have thought of using my omnitool in such a manner."

"_I was in the moment."_ She said dryly, then shook her head. _"The pity is that I can't make any sense out of these readings." _She sat back. _"According to these, that thing was technically _not there_."_

"It quite obviously was," he corrected her. She nodded. She wanted to take umbrage at his tone, but he was just too damn calm for that.

"_Well, yes. I should have said, in a physics-sense of 'there'. What we _saw_, was not what was _actually_ there. My omnitool saw it as something completely different. My onboard AI sees it as something completely different from my omnitool."_ She growled in frustration. _"I need a bigger brain than mine to look at this. Energy didn't affect it, but your weapon took it apart."_ She looked back at him, saw him still reading, frowned. _"Are you listening to me?"_

"Of course." He didn't look up. "This entity seemingly defies conventional physics. Yet, your weapons did not affect it, while my sword did."

"_Where did you hide it, anyway?"_ He looked up.

"I didn't hide it anywhere. I simply kept it out of sight."

"_Same thing."_

"Hardly." He closed the dossier. "Curious. Your weapons are hi-energy geth designs, no?" She hesitated, nodded. "_My_ weapons are constructed from krogan-forged _mutsak_ steel, with a bonded molecular edge."

Kassidi thought, then shrugged.

"_I admit it's over my head. If it's not armor or weapon tech, I'm at a loss."_

"I thought all quarians were born part-engineer."

"_Not this quarian. Never had the head for it."_ She huffed. _"Keelah. I need to report this."_

She transmitted all her data, then waited. Behind her, Black stayed serene. He also didn't fidget like other humans. It took longer than it would have normally, over an hour, as the buoy networks were in pieces everywhere, but she finally managed to get through. She saluted automatically as Kal'Reegar appeared on her screen, a little fuzzy, but there. He must have been somewhere reasonably clean, as he was wearing only a half-mask breather instead of his full helmet.

"_I've read your report,"_ he began. _"Good work. And you found The Duke, I see."_

Black simply nodded at the quarian hero from behind her.

"_Yes, sir."_

"_The implications of your scans are disturbing, to say the least. On the bright side, if this situation could be said to have one, we can now show that we had nothing to do with this… thing. Not even we and the geth combined have this kind of technology."_

"_Could it be Reaper tech, sir?" _Are you a criminal, sir? Am I still beholden to follow _any _of your orders?

"_There's nothing to say, but our best minds are going over it now."_ Reegar turned his attention to Black. _"I'm going to hope we have enough info to at least anticipate these things. Well, since the very incident we wanted you to investigate has already happened, it looks like we won't need you after all, Duke." _

"So it would appear."

"_I'm unlocking the initial payment, for services already rendered."_ Black transferred it to his own tool.

"Fair enough." Black looked thoughtful for a moment. "I sense skepticism on your part, however. You are not convinced it is enough?"

"_I'm never convinced anything is enough."_ Reegar hoisted an eye-ridge. _"The Conclave only wanted evidence that it wasn't us up to anything underhanded, so they're focusing on that."_

"That is hardly enough."

"_Agreed. That's why I'm offering you an amended contract, Duke. Find out what the hell these things are. I'm also assigning Kassidi to you."_

"_Sir?"_ She started. _Assigning _to?

"I work _alone_."

"_It's personal."_ Black stared at him for long moments. Reegar's gleaming eyes stayed steady.

"Very well. You can infer my conditions."

"_I can. Kassidi, you will work closely with him. Find us everything you can. You are also under his command."_ Kassidi saluted, but she wasn't happy. Not remotely.

"_Yes, sir. If you order it."_

Reegar noted it.

"_Something?"_

"_No, sir."_ He narrowed his eyes at her.

"_You don't want to work with Duke? Or is it something else?"_

"_It's nothing, sir."_ Damn, he was perceptive!

"_If I can't trust you, Lieutenant…"_

"I _can be trusted, sir."_ Her tone must have given something away, because he smiled slightly, said,

"_And I can't. Is that it?"_

"_I didn't say that, sir."_

Behind her, Black laughed softly.

"I believe she thinks you did something illegal when I removed Davik from the Admiralty."

Reegar's hardened gaze looked back at her.

"_That's it?"_

Kassidi nodded. She didn't care if it got her busted back to geth orientation.

"_Yes, sir!"_ She told him defiantly.

"_You told her?"_ He directed at Black.

"I surmised that you would eventually assign her to me. She would wonder why. Best to remove distractions."

"_Wise, I suppose."_ He turned back to Kassidi. _"Do you remember the tale of_ Amora'Vanya Vas _Selanni_?"

She nodded. Of course she did, every quarian did.

"_That was Davik's idea. Through some rather devious channels he also told Cerberus which ship Gillian Grayson was hidden on. His racism nearly fractured the Flotilla."_

"_I – I was unaware of that, sir."_

"_So are most quarians. Admiral Davik Vas_ Open Sky _had too many connections to simply be removed. Yet he could not be allowed to stay. The man was threat to everyone. A secret meeting of the Conclave was called and it was decided that, for the good of the Flotilla, he had to go."_

"I was contracted to keep quarian hands clean." Black informed her.

"_You are still culpable."_ She told Reegar. He admired her sense of justice. He nodded.

"_For the safety of the Flotilla… someone has to be."_

Kassidi stared at him for a long while. Then she saluted him.

"_You'll prefer your own ship, of course." _Directed at Black.

"Of course. It can accommodate two, with minor modifications."

"_Good. We'll bring yours back under remote, Kassidi. I'll expect regular reports. The rest you'll have to work out on your own. Reegar out."_

Black looked back to her.

"If you have any personal effects…"

"_Sir – frankly, I cannot see what possible use I could be to you."_

He nodded.

"Yes. Either it is your disdain for humans in general or me in particular. I am going on the assumption, however, that you _are_ a professional, and can overlook such trivialities during this mission, no?"

She frowned at him, sniffed. Did she have no secrets left? Would she have _any_, stuck with him?

"_You're very perceptive."_

"I have to be. Well?"

Kassidi turned, stalked aft.

"_I'll do what I have to."_

Black smiled at her back.

"Well, then. This should be very interesting, don't you think?"


	17. No Going Home Again

**THESSIA**

**HECASIA CITY**

**BORDER DEFENCE ZONE**

**SEPTEMBER 2188**

* * *

**AMINENEE SHEEFA AWOKE TO THE LIGHT OF DISTANT FIRES.** Sound dampers had been turned down, so the near-continual gunfire and scream of fighters and ground vehicles was muted to a dull roar. The perpetual cover of ash and dust and smoke had meant no one had seen the sun in quite some time, or would. It dragged morale down, even though they'd all been assured they were winning. Dead Reapers, sure. Millions of indoctrinated, husked and defiled bodies still attacked, maimed, killed, and destroyed.

The War was over, but the war went on.

Aminenee stretched, yawned mightily, her body sore, her wounds aching, sleep a fleeting thing that contained no rest, her eyes gritty and heavy. The only smells were sour unwashed clothes, dirty rooms, that burnt-circuit stink of the omnipresent piles of dead husks, the sickly-sweet stench of dead asari littered everywhere, dead krogan bodies everywhere, and that underlying miasma that seemed to crawl across everything, crawl under suits and armor, cling to skin like a greasy sweat that couldn't be washed off, that soaked into and clogged nostrils and coloured every fragrance – dead Reaper hulks, some two kilometres long, crashed here and there, massive carcasses that did not rot, but stank nonetheless. They were being removed, slowly, thanks to the geth, shielded and walled off to prevent further indoctrination. She was glad it wasn't her doing it. She would not have wanted to deal with what lay under two kilometres and millions of tons of Reaper when it collapsed on a city.

But you still couldn't get rid of that smell, that nightmare odour than made every day seem slightly more hopeless than the last.

"Neemil?" She called for her daughter after a few moments. "Any of that tea left?"

Once thought lost, Neemil had been one of the refugees that had vanished and then inexplicably reappeared not so long ago. It was not a mystery Aminenee cared to ponder. She was simply grateful her daughter had returned at all. Neemil had no recollection of having gone anywhere. Aminenee didn't press her.

"One moment," she heard from deeper in the shelter. "Pity you can't smell it. It's very nice."

"Honestly," she began, dragging herself into a sitting position. "I'd rather not smell anything at this point." She stood, balanced herself as she swayed. "I'd pay a thousand credits for a five second bath. A shower. Someone to throw a cup of warm water on me."

Neemil appeared in the door, smiled, handed her a cup of _Amal_-leaf tea. Humans would have found it familiar, in smell if not in taste, for it smelled like mint-flavoured coffee. It would have tasted like ginger, however. Aminenee took it gratefully, hugged it to her chest like a doll, inhaled.

"You have saved me. My life, my sanity." Her daughter smiled.

"It's the last we have, Mother. So savour your sanity while it lasts." Her mother looked up over at her, smiled, took a large gulp, shrugged.

"I was never all _that_ stable." Neemil laughed, a welcome sound among the sounds of war.

"We have some food, not much – enough for a breakfast. It's human-liberated stuff, though."

"Oh? What?"

"Their native eggs and pork-in-a-tube things."

Aminenee frowned. They'd come across a crashed Alliance shuttle a week ago, it's crew shredded or turned by husks, but its stores were intact. They'd kept she and her daughter going – and armed. Their food was all dry-cooked and packed. It was reasonably healthy for asari to eat, not preferable (not that they had much choice in the matter), but left much to be desired taste-wise.

"You go ahead. I think I'll just have a ration bar." Neemil shrugged.

"As you say." She left, went back to the makeshift kitchen while Aminenee sipped her tea and pondered how safe it was to do armor maintenance. She'd not taken hers off in over three weeks, and it must long since needed it. If nothing else, she thought with self-deprecation, it'd be grateful to get off her and get some air.

A flick of a button and local nets came on, battle-talk and updates crackling through the receiver. Her unit was on some downtime, such as it was, and would not be called back for at least another day, depending on circumstance. It didn't stop Resil and Tovatali from chiming in on occasion, asking for sitreps. Those two probably never slept either.

There was a heavy thump on their prefab suddenly, rocking it, startling her, and she tensed. It wasn't repeated, and she slowly calmed. Probably debris. The smell of Neemil's breakfast reached her. She wondered how humans ate the stuff.

It was only when the smell became one of _burning _food, that Aminenee took any real notice. That girl. Probably engrossed in one of her precious books.

"Neemil? You're burning your breakfast – _and_ ruining my appetite."

She waited. No reply came back. After another moment, her anxiety rising, she stepped from the bedroom.

"Neemil?" On the small stove, the smoking pan, which she quickly turned off. One of Neemil's irreplaceable books was floating in a sink of dirty water. Aminenee tore through the rest of the prefab, but Neemil was _gone_. No windows or doors had been opened, their locks tight and secure. Entering or leaving would have set off the alarm. There was no way out of the place without her knowing.

Yet Neemil was gone. Aminenee began frantically calling her compatriots, the authorities, such as there was.

Neemil would only be the first of fifteen thousand, four hundred and thirty others, all from the refugee vessels recovered in earlier in the year, all of them pregnant, to vanish.

They would never be seen again.


	18. Know Thy Enemy

**TES FRIGATE _PHOENIX_**

**ENROUTE CHARON RELAY**

**SOL SYSTEM**

**SEPTEMBER 2188**

* * *

**"YOU HAVE _GOT_ TO BE KIDDING ME!"**

Angus Riley, ship's head tech and an Engineer, watched the screen in the _Phoenix's_ Situation Room with disbelief as the dossier received from Hackett loaded. The Alliance symbol rolled up, with a "For Eyes Only" legend under it.

"Boss _– please_, tell me this is some kind of sad Alliance joke."

Miranda gave him a sour look.

"It isn't. This is not some mid-tier contract, Riley. This is important." Her crew were comfortable seated at a long table, the large screen at one end. The room, if not on a starship, would not have looked out of place in a posh office block. She sat at one end. Riley sat between Ellie and Saajila to her right. Her other asari crew member, the soft-spoken and ex-"performance poet" – whatever that was - Alieesh Himgi– appeared on holo by the big screen. She was the _Phoenix's _pilot. She was a formidable Adept, who had a penchant for reciting the asari equivalent of a haiku with every significant kill. Miranda's favourite so far had been the one she'd intoned on the Sirius III Depot raid against a Blood Pack krogan chieftain:

* * *

"_Singularity bound, warp to follow_

_Your actions you find turn out to be hollow_

_One thing to uncover ere we're through_

_That it's very unfortunate you had to be you."_

* * *

As epitaphs went, Miranda mused, they at least _rhymed_.

"_Why would we kid you, Riley?"_ Himgi asked him. _"As usual, you make no sense."_

"I make perfect sense. It goes hand-in-hand with my beauty – sense and looks. Unbeatable."

Up the table from Miranda, Illemna Rafleen, another _Vanguard_-class biotic, salarian, said dryly,

"Oh, no, Riley, you're perfectly beatable." Which induced laughter in her crewmates and a sour look from the Engineer.

Not many "normal" salarian females left Sur'kesh, certainly _none_ with biotic abilities, (as rare as they were) but Illemna was anything but normal. She was exactly five feet tall, with an even temper, large green eyes, elegant back sweeping horns and delicate skin patterns, rusty and golden. Unfortunately, Illemna was one of the unfortunate caste of salarian females – genetically sterile, and although from a prestigious breeding family, she could never contribute to the line. When her latency for biotics was uncovered (possibly contributing to her sterility), she opted to be outfitted and trained for it, becoming a one of the rare female STG agents, then leaving that when her attentions wandered elsewhere, off Sur'kesh and away from the pity. The war had seen her trapped on the horror that had become the Citadel, a bodyguard among many of the salarian Councilor. Only his evacuation had saved her.

When she Charged, she curled into a ball – since she was "so small", and called it her "Body-Punch". It was effective enough. She preferred krogan shotguns and salarian pistols. She was also a near-supernatural cryptologist/decrypter. Miranda had yet to see a code or lock she couldn't crack.

Next to Illemna sat – or rather fidgeted, one Tsuchi Hoshiko, an _Infiltrator/Sentinel-_class biotic and the not-so-secret crush of Mr. Riley. Not secret to anyone other than _Hoshiko_, that was. She was quiet, introspective, not one for crowds or much camaraderie. Hailing from Ashiya, Fukuoka Prefecture in Japan, the former teacher and chemical specialist had been recruited by Cerberus before being reassigned to the Lazarus Project. Miranda remembered liking that she was calm and professional, and had sought her out when she formed the team. Hoshiko_-san_ agreed the way she'd agreed to join _Lazarus_, without a fuss. Because of her chemical expertise, Hoshiko_-san_ was both the crew's medic and explosive expert. She had straight features, large eyes, and a disarming manner. In the quiet between missions, she kept to herself, not unfriendly, just preferring her own thoughts. But in combat, however, that manner _vanished_. Hoshiko-_san_ was as fierce and relentless as anyone else on her crew. She also had an odd love of ancient motion pictures, her favourite actors being James Cagney, Katherine Hepburn and Bette Davis. When inquired as to why, she would only say, "They seem kind", and left it at that.

She merely smiled at the jibe to Riley, and she was the only one he "forgave".

"Well, Tsuchi-_chan_ thinks I'm wonderful." He smirked at her.

Sitting next to Ellie, cleaning a pistol, was the soldier of the lot, Ilola Jamilah, weapons expert.

"If you said that about _me_? I would shoot you for defamation of character." Which also prompted more laughter, even a light one from Hoshiko. Riley just shook his head and shut up.

Jamilah was not as heavily biotically dependent as the rest, using what biotic power she had to charge her ammo and barriers, but she did it _so_ well, it was if she were encased in a Reaper hull and had bullets coated in depleted uranium. She was a tank without the heaviness. She didn't like uniforms, never one for a lot of protocol. She was covered in intricate tribal tattoos, all in a bright white pigment that stood out sharply on her dark skin. No one knew what they meant, and Ilola had no inclination to explain them. She liked to laugh – loudly, loved folly and sarcasm and had one of the best singing voices Miranda had ever heard. She'd often wondered why Ilola did not pursue it professionally – a huge and lucrative career was carried in that voice, but Ilola was completely indifferent to the idea. She also, and Miranda admitted a certain level of envy to herself, looked like that classic ancient bust of Nefertiti. Her short hair was wrapped in a bright red bandana with a faded Alliance insignia on it.

Lastly, but certainly not least, currently sifting through the dossier for the meeting, standing by the screen, the oddest biotic of the team and the absolute rarest.

Asha'Rhaal Vas _Phoenix_, one of only five known _quarian_ biotics in existence. She was also Miranda's secret. An exile from the Flotilla, Asha'Rhaal had been kicked out through no fault of her own, an unwitting victim of an ill-advised experiment – long-since buried and forgotten by most quarians and never, _ever_ acknowledged by the Admiralty – in an attempt to create quarian adepts. The faked ship disaster and release of dust-form eezo through a civilian ship – a freighter aptly-named _Last Resort - _had killed ninety quarians and crippled thirty others, only five showing any inclination. It had been quickly hushed up, the ship declared lost - stripped and abandoned in an asteroid field in the coincidentally-named Phoenix system in the Argos Rho cluster - and the five survivors, all children - striped of their names and exiled to a far-rear perimeter ship to further the experiment. Asha'Rhaal had been ill for months, nearly died any number of times, but once she'd recovered, she'd found herself possessed of new power – at least the _potential_ for power, as her amps were not professionally done, her e-nodes small, the surgery inept.

Eventually, she'd escaped. Fortunately for her, her stolen skiff was found by a passing asari surveyor, and her uniqueness and story found her on Illium, under a servitude contract that saw her amps professionally installed, her biotics professionally trained and her life – even as a _defacto_ slave, much better than it had ever been on the Flotilla. She'd served as a secretary/bodyguard for an asari CEO, perfect because who would ever suspect a quarian as a biotic, until her contract had been up and she'd felt confident – and financially salient enough – to strike out on her own.

She'd gone back to the Fleet when the call had gone out at the start of the Geth War, in disguise and under an assumed name with false colours, melded in with the "survivors' of lost quarian ships – at least a legitimate one. She'd stepped on Rannoch like all the others with an odd joy at a home she'd never known and had though to escape into the huge empty areas, but felt that joy dissipate with an astonishing alacrity. It was not home. She had no real love for the quarian people, felt no loyalty to the Fleet and had no living kin, all having been on the _Last Resort_. It had been struck from the Fleet Roster, and it now had never been, so she had never been.

Asha'Rhaal found that suited her just fine.

For all her experiences, she had a remarkably positive outlook on life. Despite her distrust of most quarians, Miranda valued Asha highly, employing her for her strengths. She had also, thanks to Miranda's bottomless finances, the best suit money could buy, and had undergone the "geth immunity therapy". Due to her biotics, she acclimated quickly, and rarely needed her helmet. She still wore it when on mission, but on the _Phoenix_, she rarely did. She looked, Miranda thought, remarkably like the asari Shiala, whom Miri knew only from dossiers on potential teammates for Shepard during the Collector missions (Shiala was considered "tainted" and never considered seriously). Asha's eyes were different, darker, with a slight tilt. Her facial markings were jagged, like thin lightning bolts.

"Excuse me," she said, looking up. "I'm ready."

"Go ahead, Asha." Miranda got herself comfortable.

"What can be determined from the data contained in this dossier is troubling. It seems that some previously unknown agency is targeting and killing what appears to be select groups of various species. However, in each instance, wherever quarians are present, they are spared. Also, it seems that this immunity also extends to krogan. I will now show you all the relevant vid-feeds."

"I saw only quarians in the initial data Hackett showed me." Ashe waved the dossier as she spoke.

"There are more incidences in this. So far, closer analysis of video feeds indicate that quarians, krogan and vorcha are immune to whatever this phenomenon may be. The sample count of non-quarians is too small to say with any real certainty, but the instances are there."

"Any reason given for the discrepancy?" Illemna asked.

"None. Frankly the speculation contained herein is standard and not very imaginative, and not necessary to recount. It confuses the issue more than illuminates it. Their main excuse publicly is some form of rogue Reaper tech."

"Right. Why not? It's the handiest of excuses." Riley. He was tapping a stylus on the table. Ellie took it from him.

Asha ran the videos, and they watched stoically, with only Riley grunting or inarticulately making some noise of exclamation at particular scenes. When the last finished, Asha resumed.

"Unfortunately, it won't fly for much longer. Incidences are rising, and both civilian and law enforcement agencies are beginning to notice the lack of certain kinds of casualties."

"Okay – no offence meant," Jamilah began. "But do we know it _isn't_ the quarians?"

Asha called up a page of data on the screen, some preliminary – and not very good – scans of the affected areas.

"What little that can be gleaned hints at a technology beyond current deployments. Certainly the quarians have nothing to compare. The geth… possibly, but unlikely."

"What kind of technology?" Ellie started tapping Riley's stylus on the table.

"It appears to be some kind of magnetically-charged molecular-based artificiality."

"_Could you pretend that some of us don't know what that means?"_ Himgi.

"Sorry. The scientists who examined what little evidence they could find tentatively concur that the entities in question are artificial constructs - a conglomeration of microscopic machines and not living beings – far in advance of anything ever seen."

"Even Reapers?" Riley. Asha nodded. Riley whistled.

"Shit and the fan, Boss." He grimaced at Miranda. "Are we even remotely equipped for this kinda mission?"

"We're equipped for _any_ kind of mission," Miranda told him with pride. "I could always give you – unpaid – time off for a couple of spa days, if you're feeling stressed."

"Not remotely." He smirked at her. "Fine – so it's a sweep and gather mission. We go looksee and report back?"

"I think Councillor Hackett is worried that this – whatever it is – goes _much _deeper than that."

"What do you think, Asha?" Riley asked her.

"There isn't enough coherent data to draw any conclusions. I do agree, however, that this is only going to get worse."

Miranda nodded.

"That's the general consensus. Review these contacts Hackett wants us to find, please."

"They are acquainted with one another. The first of those is a human, named Winston Black. The assassin known as…"

"The Duke." Hoshiko finally spoke up. Riley eyed her with surprise and suspicion.

"You know this man, Hoshiko-_san_?" Miranda asked.

"Only by reputation." Miri's eyes narrowed. That sounded like a lie, a rather personal lie - but she didn't pursue it. Her crew were allowed their secrets, as long as it didn't jeopardize the mission. She indicated Asha was to continue.

"…Duke. Last seen enroute to Kahje, reason unknown. The second is Akilah Nwosu Shizuka, known as 'The Hammer' - a codename, obviously – she has apparently been in reserve and recalled to active duty. This says she is currently on or has recently departed Layfette Station. Finally, Ellison Flynn, recently released from Ashewharf Prison on Hercanilys - whereabouts unknown."

No one saw Miranda start at the name and face on the screen. She covered it with a discreet cough as Saajila asked,

"What's their connection to one another?"

"They're all former – or inactive – N7-class Alliance soldiers. The last time they served together was on the planet Torfan in 2178."

"Wait, wait…." Riley piped. "I _know_ those names. They were the last survivors of _Shepard's_ team against the batarians. 'Shepard's Knives'!"

Ellie gave Riley a look of feigned contempt. Miranda arched an eyebrow at him.

"Shepard's _what_?"

"'Knives'. It's what the regular grunts called 'em - you know, he was the _Butcher_ and they were his _Knives_. Butcher - Knives!"

"That has to be the stupidest thing I've heard all week." Ellie told him, shaking her head.

"What? Soldiers are like that."

"I know what soldiers are like. It's still stupid."

"It's just a nickname," he said lamely.

"It's stupid."

"Okay, okay." He sighed. "_Sheesh._ An island alone in a sea of roiling estrogen. My fate, my burden."

"There is also a very recent request here to meet with a Doctor Liara T'Soni – at 'our earliest convenience'. Coordinates are included." Miranda nodded, wondered what the Shadow Broker knew, rose, indicating the meeting was over.

"Everyone to their stations. We'll try and find this 'Hammer' woman first. If we miss her, we'll go meet Doctor T'Soni. From the sounds of things, we've got our work cut out for us."

Riley sauntered by her as they all filed out, stopped, said,

"No shit. We have to hunt strange critters that successfully kill with a touch – _except_ for certain kinds of folks, _and _hunt for N7 killers who may or _may not_ know something about something even the people most intimately involved and have the most information on actually have no clue about either." He huffed out a breath, sucked another in. "That sound right?"

"Pretty much," Miranda told him blandly. She crossed her arms.

"I'll go run diagnostics on Joe. Maybe he'll know what the hell is going on."

The door shushed behind him, but Miranda was no longer listening. She was gazing at a face yet on the screen, one with red hair and green eyes, an insolent smile on his not-unattractive face, the name "Ellison Flynn" over it, his vital statistics scrolling beneath. Miranda sighed, shut the screen off. She felt a headache start behind her eyes, rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, _god_. Flynn_._" She muttered to herself. "_Any_one but _Flynn_."


	19. Here We Go Again

**THE SHADY**

**UNLISTED OMEGA ANNEX**

**TERMINUS PIRATE MOORING**

**OMEGA NEBULA**

* * *

**SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGED**, no matter where you were from – especially pirates and their hangouts. This one was no different, and most eyed her as she came in, but no one bothered her – at least not yet. Her drink was appropriately toxic, and she sipped it sparingly. Following the trail from Ramnageo led her here, but so far, there had been no trace of the Pathosis anywhere she'd been on this rock, but that could change at any time. Using the Relays slowed it down considerably, as it could use them only as a Vector - surprisingly it's most vulnerable stage - even if it were also its most deadly.

None of the Pandemonia, either, but those bastards could be _anywhere_. They showing up was only a matter of time. She couldn't be sure if they'd followed her, but it would be unlike them to not notice her gone.

She had to keep reminding herself of just where she was, especially when the group of asari getting drunk in the corner kept drawing attention to themselves with their laughing and singing some ancient asari ditty. When a pair of them danced drunkenly by her, and one stopped to stare a moment, it was all she could do to keep her instincts in check and not attack.

Not _these_ asari, she told her herself. These were seeded stock, not original. Besides, she hadn't seen a single Prothean yet, and no self-respecting asari went far without one. In a dark corner, by himself, she spotted a quarian, wondered what he was doing so far outside his own space, especially with asari around, again admonished herself that here, quarians were not the same.

The turian in the corner kept staring at her too, and the small biotic ball that she flicked across the room and through his glass, to smash it and spray his drink all over his face was her way of telling him to cut it out. Perhaps it had been a smidge vindictive, but she'd never admit to it. She could see him get angry as he sputtered and made to rise…

…just as the _whump_ of a distant explosion cut through the din. Weapons were snatched and brains sobered in a hurry as another followed, a bit closer. The next was preceded by a stuttering _tick-tick_ sound and the explosion was _much_ closer, rattling the walls of the prefab building that passed as a pub.

She _had_ wondered when he was going to show up. Another explosion rocked the entire building and blew the doors open and three windows out, followed by two turians and a batarian bodily riding the shockwave.

"_It's the Alliance!_" someone yelled, and the pirates in the pub ran for it – some out the door, some out the back. Still sitting calmly, she sipped her drink and waited. There was some intermittent gunfire that quickly died away and then silence.

The man stepped into the pub like he owned it, stopped in the doorway to survey the interior, glare at those who had either been too drunk, scared or both to leave, until his eyes found her. Clad in his black armor, his usual five weapons strapped to him, he cut a formidable figure. Smoke swirled off his armor and around his feet. His _presence_ seemed to precede him, and she could feel it from across the place. His eyes were pale in the gloom, cold and emotionless. He'd taken another step when someone yelled from behind him, and in one fluid motion, he'd turned, intercepted the two metre _Hevt'ek_ sword of the batarian pirate, pulled him into the room, over his shoulder and slammed his omniblade through him. The sword he picked up, examined briefly and dropped on the now-dead alien.

"It's not the Alliance," he muttered at the corpse. "Whatever that is."

"As entrances go, that was pretty good." She told him, kicking a chair out from the table as he neared. He simply looked at her with a slight twitch of his lips on that granite face and pulled the chair toward him, sat. It creaked under him.

"They attacked the instant they saw me. I suppose some things stay true no matter where you go."

She nodded.

"That may just be _you_. You seem to invoke that in certain segments of any given population."

"And you get around, Captain." The voice was like a knife across a whetstone. He set his Valkyrie on the table, pulled a small tool from his belt, to adjust some screw she couldn't see. After that, he tapped a switch, which slid the rear stock open, and he ejected the powercell, tucked it into a pouch. Another went smoothly in. She wondered how curious the pirates around her would be if they knew _this_ Valkyrie used neither thermal clips nor a cooldown system, but high-density plasma cells infused with microscopic flecks of razor-edged metal instead. She had tapped into local nets and knew of the ongoing war against the husk creatures left behind by the ancient Machines. Produce that Valkyrie _en masse_, and those husks would quickly be a distant, albeit unpleasant memory.

"The Machine Cycles are over. They've released the Pathosis."

His eyes narrowed.

"The Resumption." She nodded. The slaughter, she sighed to herself, tired by the mere thought, was just beginning.

"Inevitable. Any Pandemoniacs?"

"I tracked a Dispersal to this area of space, but so far nothing."

"They're going to complicate matters."

"They won't be in force yet." He eyed her for a moment, gauging, weighing the variables.

"Your opinion?" He asked her, going back to adjusting his gun.

"So far, I destroyed a major Infestation on Ramnageo. The Pandemonia can't be allowed to help it spread. There's no denying it, however. The Pathosis _is_ here. I suggest we find high-level operatives, make them aware of the situation and attempt damage control. It might also be worthwhile to find some human authorities and offer them one or more of our weapon blueprints. It would help with our credibility and we can at least give the Marked a fighting chance."

He stowed his rifle, gave her a skeptical look. A glance out a window showed a few pirates moving around to the back. She nodded slightly, indicated more heading around the other side.

"It's hard to believe." A small shrug from her. She knew that. A few more pirates tried to "nonchalantly" enter the pub to take up positions.

"The Pandemonia… their insanity will just add to the chaos. They need to be a priority." The Pandemonia was... a_ force_. An entire Repository that seemed to exist to do solely the will of _one man_. They believed the Pathosis was literally Divine Will, and that one man its single voice. Neither of them believed there was anything remotely divine about that particular brand of madness.

"Agreed, but we can't do anything until they show. Vex scanned a few reports of some odd ship movements around Machine hulks, but it's nothing conclusive, either. If they take over salvage and recovery teams they can grab all the ships they need."

"Vex?"

"My ship's AI. I got an upgrade."

"Oh."

"So... they're targeting salvage and containment teams?"

"Nothing definite. But, it'll certainly help with Dispersal if they can infiltrate major sites." He rubbed his chin.

"It'll just make everyone paranoid if we include them in our 'coming-out'."

"No choice. Better a little paranoia than wholesale slaughter. This space has already had more than its fair share."

"You know we can only _slow_ the Pathosis."

"Slowing it gives more people better chances to get out of its way."

"You're an idealist." His voice held nothing but disdain for the concept. She wondered if he'd ever had anything other than nightmares.

"Being cynical makes me tired." He didn't smile, and she pondered whether his face would even allow one.

"You manage to access any local 'nets? Seen any news?" She asked him, finishing her drink, not remotely concerned as the numbers against them grew.

"I think 'clusterfuck' wouldn't be inappropriate." He rolled his shoulder. "I've seen your counterpart. She's …different, to say the least." He told her offhandedly. She seemed unperturbed by that news.

"I've seen her." So alike, so indeed radically different. She wished she had time to investigate, but things _never_ worked that way. "And yours. Interesting paths 'we've' taken, no?" She rose, he followed. She indicated that they'd be surrounded. He'd noticed.

"That's one way to look at it. Any suggestions as to contacts?" The Captain nodded out the blown-open doors to the crowd of armed pirates gathering. He raised an eyebrow.

"I think it would be easier," she smiled, the mesh on her armor going blue, "for _them_ to find _us_."

The Commander smiled – if one could call the grim slash that bent his lips up ever-so-slightly a smile, and pulled his Valkyrie, his eyes going flat. "The Human Wrecking Machine" was about to go to work. She was no slouch in that arena herself.

"Best not keep them waiting then," he told her. He took the front and she the group in the back.

Neither group knew what hit them.


	20. Finished Off

**DESPOINA**

**"CIRCLE 8"**

**COVERT WATCH PLATFORM**

**PSI TOPHET**

**LATE SEPTEMBER 2188**

* * *

**"_STILL NO RESPONSE, DR. T'SONI."_** Glyph told her in its even tones. Liara walked calmly to her window and tucked her hands behind her back, eyed the platform with dubious eyes. It looked for all the worlds like debris, a few broken and exposed decks of a shattered warship. It had only low-band radiation and eezo-mist emissions, nothing more than any chunk of destroyed starship would give off. In the distance, a few blown-apart Reaper hulks, left over from a spillover fight in the neighbouring system. The _Blue Shadow_ was ready to bolt at a moment's notice.

"This was a _very_ well-hidden station," Liara commented, running a check through her omnitool. "Not a single mention of it, _any_where."

"_I regret my lapse, Doctor." _

"Hardly your fault, Glyph. This was expertly disguised. If one _is_ to secretly spy on Leviathans, this would seem the best way – just never log it anywhere." Perfect secrecy, even from the Shadow Broker. Simply keep no records. "However if this thing is masked, it is masked well. I can't scan anything past what I'd expect to find."

Behind her, Liara's father paced, looking out-of-character in armor. Truth to be told, armor suited her much better. Aethyta had centuries of combat experience behind her, and was absolutely no pushover.

"That's kinda the point. Anyway, well-hidden or not," she grumbled. "We found it."

"We found it because an asari stationed on this sent you a distress signal." Liara glanced back at her father. "Why you and not whatever agency is responsible for this?"

Aethyta smiled at her.

"Because _I'm_ the agency responsible for this."

Liara blinked in surprise.

"_You_ are?"

"'Course I am. Don't get to live as long as I have and _not_ learn something about covert operations. I was a veteran commando and sneaking around crap before anyone on this tub was born."

"How did you learn about Leviathans?"

"I asked. It only takes one _really _drunk Black Ops Alliance Marine to spill everything to a sexy-voiced asari impressed by his prowess."

"I had wondered where my devious streak had come from." The Matriarch nodded.

Liara turned back to scanning the platform.

"Can I assume that the distress signal was a one-off, used only in the event of an emergency?"

Her father nodded, walked to stand beside her, mimicked Liara's stance.

"You assume correctly. Better to just accumulate data and do periodic retrievals, which is what my girl was supposed to be doing when she called."

"Glyph, check on the system scan and report."

"_At once, Doctor T'Soni. One moment, please." _Liara felt the atmosphere in the ship tense. Any active scans were a huge risk. The initial communication to the platform had been on an extreme tight-beam channel, through the one the distress beacon had been sent on – which had been left open. The kind of scan they needed now would alert not only any Alliance or allied ships in the area, but the Leviathans as well. The only reason Liara was willing to risk it was because the distress signal sent had aroused no response, which was strange enough.

Aethyta watched one of Liara's crew walk by.

"So, how are my girls treating you?"

"They are an exceptional group. How did you manage to get Death Mistress commandos, not only off Thessia but to swear loyalty to me?"

"They're _my_ Mistresses. I trained 'em, I made 'em. What do you think I did before I moved to Illium anyway? Study drink recipes?"

"_Doctor T'Soni – scan complete."_ Glyph informed her. "_No reactions indicated. All non-natural power sources in this area read as either inoperative or in standby mode."_

"What?" Liara turned and hurried to the bridge, Aethyta hard on her heels. "That's impossible!" She tapped her pilot on the shoulder. "Take us further in the system."

A nod, and they were quickly underway. Liara ordered deep silent running, but tension mounted the closer they got to Despoina, but no one challenged them. The _Blue Shadow_ went into a high orbit and they stayed in silent running for a half-hour before Liara dared another scan.

Again …nothing.

"Hey – run a scan for lifeforms."

"I don't know if our scans can reach that deep without probe support."

"Try it anyway." Liara ordered Glyph to comply and they waited. Almost immediately, however, it reported,

"_Doctor, Matriarch, I am scanning multiple large biomasses in the oceans below. I will scan for quantities, but I cannot detect any lifesigns."_

"_What_? Let me see!" Glyph projected his scan to a large monitor. "By the Goddess!"

Below, in an immense swathe of ocean, floating like islets in a sea of ink, Leviathans gently bobbed. "Tuning" in a closer view, their bodies showed no signs of violence, yet they were indisputably dead.

"_Doctor – I have finished my preliminary quantitative scan. My estimated count on surface bodies is six million, five hundred and fifty-seven thousand, six hundred and twenty-seven. If the population is larger, I would say most are underwater or likely on the ocean floor. Aside from simple sea life, I detect no higher lifeforms alive within range of my scans, admittedly limited. I recommend standing down silent running and launching probes to confirm this finding."_

"Do it, Glyph. We have to know."

The scans and probes only confirmed it. Aside from the ones on the surface, probes showed them scattered across the sea floor, at least several hundreds of thousands more, possibly more than that. No one had ever managed a census and the Leviathans kept such information to themselves. The conclusion was inescapable.

Unless Leviathans existed on other planets, and there was nothing to say they did, they were now _extinct_.

"Well, shit." Aethyta said, as the last of the scans came in. "What the hell could kill them _all_?"

Liara shook her head. Reapers had never managed this far, save for the ones that had followed Shepard and his team when they were first discovered. The Leviathans had enthralled all of those, and none other had come again. She had intercepted reports of the strange beings that seemed to be targeting specific species – could they have done the same to the Leviathans? Regardless, this couldn't be allowed to remain a secret.

"Glyph, send this through our usual channels."

"_As you command, Doctor."_

"You putting this out?" Aethyta asked, shaking her head at the genocide below.

"Yes. Something _very_ wrong is going on. I think we need to find out exactly what it is." Liara tapped her pilot. Her hands were shaking. "Take us to our meeting with Miranda Lawson. I think this has gone beyond serious. We _have_ to find out what is going on."

The _Blue Shadow_ broke orbit as gracefully as it had entered it, and was soon on its way to the Relay. Aethyta watched the stars go by for a moment.

"You really worried, kid?" She asked, her own trepidation growing.

"No," Liara told her, heading back to her office. "I'm _terrified_."


	21. The Hammer

**LAFAYETTE STATION**

**N7 TRAINING HQ**

**SOL SYSTEM**

**LATE SEPTEMBER 2188**

* * *

**"FRANKLY, I DON'T APPRECIATE THIS, SIR."**

"_It came out of left field, Commander, I understand that."_ Hackett gazed down at her calmly from the large screen before her. She was standing in the office of the station's CO. Around her were standards, medals, images of past teams, most dead now. She was in there, somewhere, tall and proud, standing close to Vaughn and the rest. Shepard and the rest. Her eyes made to search it out, but she forced them back to the screen. Most dead; her too, really. The past dead. Too many dead.

The carpet was Alliance blue, the walls a muted rust colour. The desk was some ancient wooden thing, no doubt hauled here at great expense, the chair some leather she couldn't identify. The NorAm, EU, Indian Union, The Reformed Soviet, United African States, Chinese Confederation, and Asian Prosperity Cooperative flags hung limply in a staggered row behind the chair. The flag of the Alliance stood highest in the center.

"_You were, however, on the reserves list."_

Shizuka grimaced. That had been a courtesy, with the understanding it would never be invoked. She'd put her demons to rest on the battlefields on Earth. Yes, the fighting went on, but she was done. Getting damn-near ripped to shreds by a brute had effectively put an end to her active military career. That she'd killed it by literally climbing inside it and pulling out its guts bare-handed was nothing she'd done deliberately.

She'd been pissed off. That was all there was too it.

She was tired of death in all its forms. She'd done all the service of which she was required and then some. They cited 'psychological concerns' on her evaluation – one she'd sneered at, for how in the remotest hells could she possibly be alone in that regard basically fighting a war against cybernetic _zombies_? Hell yet raged across the galaxy, but "The Hammer" had already been through several and that's all she owed anyone.

"_Simply put, I need you._"

"Sir…"

"_I don't have any more pep-talks, Akilah. I'm fresh out this side of Armageddon. I'm not here to convince you of anything. You're N7. Period. I need you. Do your duty_." The force of his voice snapped her into a salute, habits drilled into her as natural as breathing.

"Sir! Yes, sir." N7. _To The Death and Beyond._ Inescapable.

"_Good. I expected no less. You will be briefed momentarily."_ He looked away as an aide bent near his ear. "_I want you to know I had no real choice in this. In any other circumstances I would have left you alone and wished you nothing but a successful and productive life."_

"Yes, sir." She was a soldier. Duty. Honour. Fidelity. She was not "normal" and never would be, no matter how hard she tried, no matter the horrors she endured. They were nothing. She stood between those and normal. _That _was what she was, and of what she had once been proud.

Right?

When had she forgotten?

Why was it so hard to care now?

Something to believe in?

No. There was nothing worth believing in. Not anymore. Insanity spills hell across the Galaxy and billions die for some abstract bullshit – it was too damn random. Some billion-year old science project by a bunch of snotty oversized squid? To find an answer when no one had asked the question in the first place – and then call it "for our own good"?

Too random. Too empty. Where was the truth in _any_ of that? Where was the simple basic sense it was supposed to make?

The universe was filled with only one thing: something being eaten by something being eaten, and on and on. That was it. That's all anyone got. The only decision you actually made for yourself was in how well or bad you tasted.

She almost smiled at that, when a haughty woman in black strutted in like she owned the place. Shizuka knew who she was and instantly did not like her.

"_Akilah – Miranda Lawson. She'll fill you in."_ Hackett told her from the screen. "_I'm depending on you."_

"Sir." Shizuka saluted him because he deserved it, and the screen went blank. Miranda held out a hand as she drew near.

"As the Councilor said, I'm Miranda Lawson, I'm…"

"I know who you are." Shizuka's voice could have flash-frozen a lake. "Who do _you_ think you are?"

Miranda blinked, put her unshaken hand away. Were _all_ N7's this damn stolid?

"In charge of an operation put together by Councilor Hackett." She took a bold stance, hands on hips, doing her best to not be intimidated.

"You were famous for ten minutes and _this_ was your reward?"

Shizuka clasped her hands behind her back, turned a contemptuous look on the _Phoenix_ commander.

"I graduated fifth in a class of twenty-five. All N7's." Shizuka began. "I served on Torfan. I personally killed seventy-five batarian _Hjak'rakar _there_. _I fought on _seven_ different fronts during the War. I commanded the 195th on the Chinese Confederate Front, and the 009's on the Thessian Extreme Front for six weeks without reinforcements." Her look became even more withering. "What did _you_ do, again?"

"Why should _you_ take _my_ orders, is that it?" Miranda walked confidently to the CO's chair, almost sat down, but choose to simply spin it instead, congratulated herself for not making that mistake. "Well, you're right – you shouldn't, and that's not why I'm here. I am _contracting_ you – via Councilor Hackett's recommendation – as a special consultant for my mission." She propped a hip against the desk, folded her arms. "Follow my orders? No. But I _am_ in charge. _My _resources, you see."

"I was called back to active duty. I don't 'contract' out to _any_body."

"Let's not dance this dance, Commander. Soldiers – especially exceptional ones – consult all the time." Miranda eyed her, assessed, then decided. "I'll make you a bargain. You allow me to brief you on just _why_ you were recommended and then you can decide whether or not it's worth your time and abilities. If you say no, I'll simply tell Hackett I couldn't use you, and you go back to whatever it was you were doing." She spread her hands in a conciliatory gesture. "That's fair, no?"

Shizuka shrugged. It cost her nothing to humour them.

"I'll look."

"My ship would be better. It's already set up."

"Fine." She indicated that Miranda should lead the way, and followed. So far, she wasn't moved much. Yes, she knew who Miranda Lawson was, what she had done for Shepard, had done on the Citadel, had done since, and it was an impressive résumé. For a talented _civilian_. The ship was impressive, too, private frigates rare. If Lawson thought money would impress her, she would be sorely mistaken. Shizuka had made and thrown away a few fortunes in her time.

They were in the docking tube when Miranda asked,

"I apologize if it's a sensitive subject, but may I ask why you're called 'The Hammer'?"

Shizuka shrugged again.

"For my fists – I'm listed as one of the most dangerous hand-to-hand combatants ever produced by the N7's." She paused to let Miranda consider that. "I'd been contracted once by the hanar – after my inactive status - to train their assassins. My punches have been measured at almost 1500 pounds – almost four tons of impact, exerting over 55g's. That's harder than most men, and _before_ I had my bone and muscle weave augmentation."

"That's very impressive," Miranda told her in all sincerity. "You easily hit as hard as a krogan headbutt."

"Hardly. Try a krogan _charge_." She left out the part where her armor had built-in augments that allowed her to hit even harder than that. Shizuka had once stopped a full krogan charge with one punch, crushing his skull with it. She could use a wide variety of weapons, yes, but up close, _no one_ survived a fist fight with her.

Miranda led the way to her Ops room, bade Shizuka sit and replayed the same briefing she'd given her crew before.

Afterward, she offered Shizuka coffee and allowed her to digest. She didn't take the coffee, but simply sat quietly and thought.

"I can see why Hackett is worried," she said after a while. "This is the last thing this Galaxy needs."

"Absolutely."

"So why are you here, again?"

"I have the resources. I'm willing to spend them. This needs to be investigated. I have a good team, but you have the experience we lack."

Shizuka put her elbows on the table, steepled her fingers, set her chin on them.

"You said 'Consultants' – who else will be in on this?"

"I have a list – you're the first." She flashed their faces on the screen. "The other two are Winston Black and Ellison Flynn." Miranda couldn't miss the hardening of Shizuka's features when she mentioned Flynn's name. "I'm thinking of using you three to hunt for Shepard, and I and my team will investigate these …outbreaks, as it were."

Shizuka, for her part, pushed down the old anger when she heard Flynn mentioned. This mission _was_ important, and worth her time. But to work with those two again – especially Flynn? It was already pushing what she'd tolerate.

"All right. I'll join. I'll tell you this though – if I don't like how you're running things, you'll know. I'll leave, Hackett be damned."

"Fair enough. You have objections to your old comrades?"

"No. Duke is trustworthy."

"Not Ellison Flynn?"

"Let me put it this way: I'll put my fist through his head if he gets within two metres of me. Not negotiable." She rose, seemed to think some more, then nodded to herself. "If I'm in on this, I'll need my gear." Miranda agreed, promised to wait. Shizuka gave her one last faintly contemptuous look and took her leave.

_Well,_ _Flynn,_ she told his photo. _Did you have any friends left_?

Less than a half-hour later, Shizuka returned, just in time to get an emergency call. She made her way to the Command, entered just as her Galaxy map lit up, a small pulsing dot on it.

"Report!"

"_Commander – we've received an SOS from the Chandrasekhar System, Hawking Eta Cluster, relayed through Alliance Command."_

"What? Why us?"

"_Directly related they said – holy hell - it's from a Prothean ship!"_

"What?" Shizuka said behind her. "_Prothean_?"

Miranda suddenly realized, and promptly ordered the ship to intercept.

"Javik."


	22. Everywhere is Somewhere

**LOCATION UNKNOWN**

**SYSTEM UNKNOWN**

**DATE UNKNOWN**

* * *

_"I could tell I was at the gateway of a region half-bewitched through the piling-up of unbroken time-accumulations; a region where old, strange things have had a chance to grow and linger because they have never been stirred up." **  
**_

* * *

**EVERYTHING HURT.**

It was if every cell in his body had been squeezed very hard, then individually extracted and squeezed a second time before being put back upside down. It was also hard to remember how his senses worked. He could taste passing well, his mouth filled with the flavor of burnt metal and sour ice. After a moment, he realized the reason he could smell nothing was that there was nothing to smell. Breathing in, the air was fine, yet completely odourless – or anything that did smell in it was below or above his sensory perception.

Otherwise… nothing.

Ears told him everything was silent. A very odd kind of silence, a silence that contained no sound. Usually, no matter where one went – without the intervention of noise-deadening tech, there was always _some_ ambient sound. Even if it was just slight eddies in the atmosphere surrounding one, that dim "ear-to-the-seashell" sound. Like the smell, it was just _nothing_. No sound of moving air, no distant power generation, no dripping, no mutters or murmurs, no machinery. Nothing. The air around him was neither cold nor warm, just _there_.

Right. Eyes next. They opened properly, stung a bit, saw only black and white initially then images gradually regained their colour – such as it was. Feeling that most of his senses were operating within tolerances, Victor Shepard slowly climbed to his feet, tried to take a survey of just where he was.

His first impression was …featureless.

Great walls of grey something – he couldn't tell if they were rock or metal or some odd amalgam of both. A close look at the floor revealed extremely fine marks, some amazingly precise machining, intricate designs in no sensible pattern he recognized. Grey light showed him that the walls abutted twisted put precise walkways, honeycombed above and below him, but he could see no ceiling, the walls just disappearing into a haze, and they created equally deep chasms to the sides.

It struck him that he'd once heard Hell described like this.

He tried his voice, used the standard "Hello", before he called for Jack or Grunt, not anxious or perturbed just yet, his mind too busy assessing and calculating. The sound of his voice carried with such clarity it startled him, but it seemed to not carry too far before it faded into that absolute silence, as if it didn't quite know what to do with itself once said. He picked a direction, figuring one was a good as any, and started walking, stopped, then resumed. Again, such strangeness, as the air seemed to have to remember to part as he moved through it, as if it had been still for a very, very long time.

He was, it took him a moment to realize, naked.

_Right. Of course I am. I'm hoping that this just means… hell, no – it probably means I'm dead._ _Getting to be a habit._

He turned a corner to find the same precise walkway leading into the distance. There wasn't a single primary colour anywhere he could see.

_If this is hell, though… well, frankly, it's kind of dull._

Shepard remembered, far back before the batarians arrived on Mindoir, his mother reading him the myths of past cultures. His parents had been Saganists, and not remotely religious, preferring to see the universe as a place of ultimately understandable scientific wonders, instead of a grim star-lit midway point between some dull heaven and an unjust hell.

His best friend at the time, Eddie Carpolli, came from a family of Unitangentists, who believed that there _was_ a God, but that God expected you to take his marvelous universe and the amazing brain he gave you to basically go figure stuff out. When one died, God asked only one question: "_What did you learn_?"

Fortunately, there was no wrong answer, which Eddie used to describe as the "beauty of" that particular religion. There was no hell in Eddie's belief system, just an endless cycle of being sent back until you learned everything that could be understood, although God did keep a mystery or two for Itself. When everyone finally did it, God would restart the universe and the whole thing would begin again with an entirely _new_ universe of things to learn.

Shepard agreed he could understand its appeal.

There were hells in other religions, of course. Dark ones, cold ones, places of unimaginable burning horrors and tortures (_the gods were always described as "utterly compassionate and infinitely loving", and even Shepard's fifteen-year-old mind saw the immense contradiction in a god being that and owning a hell of eternal agony_), and the one that always stuck in his head:

The Empty One. An eternity of complete and absolute _nothing_.

That was the one that bothered him the most. That was the hell he found most terrible as a boy.

And, at the moment, it looked like _that_ was the one he was _in_.

He shook that off. He'd long ago given up notions of actual hells. There were far too many far too real ones out there, happening every day.

Shepard lost track of time as he walked, uncertain he was actually getting anywhere at all, his mind turning back to Jack and Grunt, the last moments on the _Emerald Dawn_. He and Jack had been asleep, the _Dawn_ had slewed as if tail-slapped and the ship's alarms had gone off, he'd heard Grunt roar and Jack coming awake with a flare of bright blue… then this.

Shepard didn't hope either Jack or Grunt were all right. Although he had a great affection for Grunt and loved Jack in every way he had, his mind simply didn't work that way. He knew their capabilities. He knew their strengths, mettle and minds. He didn't hope. He succeeded or he failed. If they were dead, they were dead and beyond caring, and he would regret one and mourn the other. If they were alive, he knew they could handle themselves. Until he knew more of both his place and situation, he had no energy to waste on worry.

The new sound was the first thing he noticed, so out of place – even his bare footfalls were almost imperceptible. The sound was… hard to describe. This sound had _weight,_ volume not in intensity but in size, it had an actual physical presence he could feel approaching. His ears heard it as one uniform tone, almost a musical note, but not one his brain recognized. When the sound reached him, he was forced back a step, and it went over him, and around him, and he felt it as if he were wrapped in silk only gods wore, spun from some impossible thread, only to have it go _through_ him so thoroughly he half-turned expecting to see some perfect image of him carried away with it as it passed.

* * *

**A**Nd **sO**

* * *

…he thought it said.

Shepard managed one step and collapsed in a surprised heap, gasping for air. A moment later, he could breathe, felt strength return. Beneath him, those intricate designs began to light up, the colour one his brain could not process. He only knew it was a colour, and his mind told him it was a kind of light, but his eyes only skittered over it, unable to look directly. The walls ahead were also glowing. Shepard climbed to his feet, slowly resumed his trek. Ahead, a dark line began at the floor and began to climb, and it took him a moment to realize that line was only the darkness of something beyond a wall splitting apart.

Having little choice, Shepard simply kept walking.

Again, time seemed to elude him, his mind wandering away. He inexplicably found it fixated on the hollow in Jack's hip just under her iliac crest, how smooth the skin was, how warm (biotics were always warmer) and sweet it was; thinking how desolate and broken he'd felt before his resurrection, how very tired he'd been, how her face looked when he'd first seen her up close on Purgatory. He heard his mother screaming. He heard his father yell. He smelled his sister cook, and she made not a sound, better and braver and more human that he'd ever be, his comrades of the finest kind, buried under a million tons of earth and fire - Jack threatening to haunt him if he got her killed, wanting to murder whole worlds for every hurt she'd endured, every tear she'd shed, every outrage they had _dared _visit upon her _- _watching that splendidly horrific mushroom cloud rise on Virmire and vapourize one of the bravest, best women he'd ever had the privilege of knowing, sitting next to Anderson and feeling that feeling of immense _alone_ as the great man died, his mentor, his compass, his spiritual father; feeling whole civilizations being smashed and eaten, trillions screaming horror and defiance in his head - he was drowning in an immense Galaxy-ocean of blood, a billion years of abyssal grief and crushing horror and empty murder and depthless pain that screamed across the universe to fall on the ears of deaf gods and all of it the product of the _fucking_ machines _of a murderously arrogant race of "master" squid bastards that deserved only extermination, and ifhehadtokilleverygodincreat ionwithhisbarehandstodoit, then_…!

* * *

**C**Ea**S**E

* * *

That word. He felt it. Smelled it. Saw it writ by the finger of God a billion miles high. Tasted it in the air.

It _stopped_ him, stopped the uncontrollable mass of memories and emotions and primal hates and lusts that howled through his species' cells from the very first predatory eyeshine in the first cave, the first scream of fear, the first roar of grief and vengeance that created weapons and love, that birthed true humanity. That had slammed him down and made him shriek a voiceless roar-wail. Gripping the floor as if he might suddenly be thrown into the air, Shepard bawled and gulped, drooled and sweat, bled and shook.

Eventually, he got control. Such as it was.

Eventually he stood. More or less.

Eventually he saw and heard and felt again without pain. It ached and hurt too deep for any real articulation of pain.

The odd thought occurred to him as he stood there reeling like a drunkard: he could only be destroyed now, he now realized. He could not be controlled by pain, or fear or hate ever again.

Where he was... an oval space immense, vast. He could see, far in the distance, the impression of walls, as if that space was enclosed in a giant grey egg. At its exact center hung an equally enormous figure, the size of a world, a suspended monolithic shape frayed at the edges, both humanoid and not, and it was only afterward he realized that his own perceptions gave it a character, but that form was entirely illusory. This… being, if it was a being, defied his senses. It refused to be quantified. It could have been a billion years old – older, made before Earth had coalesced from dust. Time, though? Time was not something it understood.

Shepard's brain forced it to be comprehensible only to spare what sanity he had left. Merely entering its presence, whatever it was, had released everything in his being, down to his cells, _through_ the cells and genes of his species.

For a moment, he knew it all. Shepard had _been_ Humanity. He had, in that instance, been destroyed utterly and remade utterly and not a single cell in him had actually changed.

* * *

Y**O**u **A**r**E**

* * *

Shepard looked up at what he knew now was only an estimation, a revenant of an idea of a being long since forgotten before it had been designed, before it had been born without being born, when its masters had made all and simply left. The simple act of it merely perceiving his presence had almost destroyed him.

* * *

**B**E K**N**o**W**N

W**E** a**R**E **H**A**V**In**G** B**EE**N E**V**Er

* * *

That great silence descended again.

Several eternities went by unnoticed.

This was _not_ Heaven. Nor Hell. _That_ was no god.

But it may as well have been.

Shepard did the only thing he could: he started to laugh, and it felt as if he would never stop.


	23. Javik Interruptus

**CHANDRASEKHAR SYSTEM**

**HAWKING ETA CLUSTER**

**PROTHEAN HEAVY FRIGATE _FAR TRAVELER_**

**FIRST OF OCTOBER, 2188**

* * *

**THE SHIPS WERE COMPLETELY ALIEN**. They attacked with no warning, as soon as he exited the relay, no formal declaration. They were not pirates, all the ships were painted and arrayed the same, as if from a single fleet. The ships were black, with symbols he did not recognize inscribed in white all over them. Fortunately, his ship's VI was much quicker-witted than he and shields had come on and warded off the first volley and returned fire before the proximity alarms had finished chiming.

Javik was not a combat pilot – he knew the basics, as he had been extensively trained to cover almost any expediency – to do what he needed at least reasonably competently – but the basics would not serve him well here. He began barking commands to the VI, but it could only handle so much, and Javik felt the rather embarrassing feeling of _missing_ the _Normandy's_ EDI machine. His shields began to buckle under the high energy barrage. He managed to cripple two of the ships, destroy one, but the remaining ringed him, started firing in sequence as they rotated around. It reminded him of the ancient Prothean 'pinwheel' attack. His VI announced the shields had failed, and he felt the first strikes hit the ablative plates on the hull. The VI announced it had destroyed one more ship, and Javik himself managed to damage one enough that it dropped from the pinwheel, but the rest, five in total, continued to attack. Behind him, a bank of monitors blew out. The VI did its best to maneuver and attempt to slip from the ring, but so far it had been unable to do so.

The VI then reported a breach in a coolant assembly and shut the engines down.

Javik cursed, fired on another ship, forcing it to veer away, but the remain four kept hammering him.

The VI then reported failures in the auto-cannons, and Javik was suddenly toothless.

With a growl, he bolted from his seat, sealed his armor, grabbed an EVA helmet and his rifle and ran for a hatchway. One way or another, he would go down with a weapon in his hands, sending death back to his enemies.

He was at the hatchway, ship heeling about from the blasts, when the VI reported another vessel vectoring in.

A moment later, the VI reported all ships destroyed.

Javik blessed his luck – provisionally - and returned to the Command deck. Onscreen, he saw an immense ship, of no design he'd ever seen before, its design a half-moon shape, easily three times the size of the _Traveler, _ slowly pulling alongside. He told the VI to hail it, but his ship abruptly lost power, and all went dark. The _Far Traveler_ then bucked as if in the hand of a giant, throwing Javik across the deck. Javik pulled himself to his feet, and nearly fell over again.

Stepping from the corridor behind him, a _Prothean female in full armor_ stepped forward and pointed behind him. He stood transfixed for a moment, and then wheeled about as a deafening _crack! _and an intensely bright column of light crackled onto the deck, began moving slowly toward him. He looked back, but the females was gone and the column was advancing. It sounded like angry lightning, and Javik tried the door, an emergency hatch, but to no avail. There was no power, not even emergency backup. The light column continued its approach and then stopped half-a-metre from him. Javik swore he could feel the light as a physical thing, so intense it was – yet he found he could look at it without discomfort.

He took a step, tentatively, and the column moved closer. He stepped back and it moved back. A tendril speared from it, transfixed him. There was no pain. Dozens more shot out to roll across floors, walls and consoles. Beyond it, bathed in the intense light, the female had reappeared.

"**a**Nd S**o**." Javik thought he heard her say, and then knew no more.

* * *

**The _Phoenix_** arrived twenty minutes later. Of the _Far Traveler _and its rescuer, there was no sign. Of the ships that had attacked Javik, only one remained. The _Phoenix _and her crew wasted no time in seizing it.

In short order, the ship's computers were emptied of information, bodies recovered, and technology scanned to the molecular level. An hour later, an Alliance recovery ship arrived in answer to Miranda's summons. The strange ship was quickly scooped up and then vanished into a clandestine laboratory for further study. The _Phoenix_ departed the area to continue its search for the rest of her dossier.

It was only in hindsight that Miranda realized that she should have destroyed that vessel then and there.


	24. Hranta

**HRANTA**

**TAL'VARGAS SYSTEM**

**KROGAN BREEDING PROTECTORATE**

**OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**HRANTA HAD SEEN ITS SHARE** of curiosities in its time. Pre-Prothean Era, it had been a small outpost of the inusannon, primarily a vacation spot, as it afforded a rather nice view of the fist-shaped Miridan Nebula just outside the system. During the reign of the Prothean Imperium, it had been transformed into a staging area for the annexation of the D'brutii Ranaa, a race they subsequently exterminated. The Reapers scoured Hranta clean when they rolled through, and the planet had recovered its lush jungles and open grasslands well in the intervening millennia. It had little mineral wealth, no eezo, and thus was of no particular interest to the Council, hence its 'gifting' to the krogan.

Hranta was no idyllic paradise, however. Half the planet was ocean, and the huge supercontinent that dominated the other half was the recipient of titanic cyclones and torrential rains. The jungles bred plants and hybrids of varying lethal toxicities, and the interior deserts and grasslands spawned ferocious predators.

The krogan couldn't have been happier, for Hranta felt a lot like Tuchunka back before the nuclear holocaust that had befallen it. At least two other planets in the system were viable – for the krogan – and the other two that weren't would be used as administration and refueling areas. Urdnot Wrex, now acknowledged Overlord – the first since the Rebellions, had his plate full – petitioning for an embassy on the Citadel – pending – and massive and extensive projects on Tuchunka itself, such as cleaning it of its nuclear wreckage and remaining radiation, and the rebuilding of its ancient legacies.

For a very long time, the krogan had been seen as nothing more than brutes and savages – and that would _change_, he'd vowed.

Krogan were better than that, he kept saying, and more and more of them were starting to agree with him. So far, his people seemed to be happy – more or less - with both his choices and decisions. They were heroes again, lauded across the Galaxy for their pivotal role against the Reapers – and their behavior afterwards.

At his insistence, the first thing built on every breeding world had been a memorial to those krogan fallen in the War. The krogan had once again had helped turn the tide – and were still liberating world after world of Reaper remnants, but their casualties had been _staggering_, and even with the Genophage cured, it would take a long time for their population to rebound. Also, next to those memorials, stood a statue to Shepard, his story required telling to all cubs – particularly the part about the Genophage (and Wrex's role in it, naturally). When he'd told Shepard that future generations would know his name as a word for 'hero' he'd _meant_ it. Shamans from many clans had endorsed it, many of them even claiming that Shepard 'may have been a krogan in some previous incarnation'.

When asked if he'd undergo the Marking Ceremony on Tuchunka, there had been some fear that grudges against Shepard might still be harboured amongst the krogan attending. There had been much opposition from his friends and Jack had wanted to forbid it, until Shepard had pointed out that every krogan he'd killed had been killed in battle, face-to-face for the most part, and that any 'true' krogan would not remotely resent that. Besides, Shepard added, if a _human_ could kill _that many_ krogan, it just proved they'd all been weak and _worth_ killing.

He'd left out that many had been warlord-level or thousand year veterans.

He'd insisted on the _full_ ceremony. Jack had been concerned, but he'd explained the necessity of both the forms and mores of the tradition, and why it mattered he do it as a krogan would do it, even though they didn't expect it.

She'd just called him "fuckin' crazy" and went with him, "to make sure no one pulled any shit".

The Urdnot Shaman had overseen the rite, and it had been broadcast to the entire planet. If krogan had not respected Shepard before (and it had to be said that many easily feared him – un-admitted, but true), they did after he'd staggered into the main camp in the middle of one of Tuchanka's harshest deserts having completed everything required.

The final part had been the tattoo - done the traditional way – which meant the moment he'd returned, it was given as publically, slowly and painfully as possible with Shepard receiving with an unflinching stoicism that had impressed any krogan left un-swayed. The headbutt given to the tattooist's assistant that had bumped him (_deliberately or not hadn't mattered_) had seemed so natural and unaffected that the roar that followed the completion of the ink had been fully respectful and heartfelt.

Wrex then made him both an honorary Urdnot and the Shaman a "spiritual krogan".

The party lasted three days and damage estimates hovered around the four million credit mark.

Jack had given a biotic demonstration that had seriously injured half-a-dozen krogan and accounted for property damage to the tune of, at least by her estimation, 'a couple of hundred grand, easy." Her respect among the krogan rose to new heights by the end of it all, as well.

Through traditional channels, as a joke, Jack also sent several mating requests to the newest Urdnot clan member – heartily accepted. When, in their drunken happiness, Urdnot Bakara had offered to officiate an official 'clan-bond pairing' of the two, they had accepted, then later discovered that on Tuchunka, much to their surprise, they were as close to 'married' as they were likely to ever get.

Jack, it turned out, had been surprisingly fine with it.

Another change had been Wrex's request to the salarians for their aid in the setup and administration of the Protectorate, as well as the 'reclaiming of Tuchunka', as he called it – and the salarians, eager to shed the past stigma of aiding and abetting the 'slow genocide' of the krogan, seemed more than happy to do so. From there they oversaw the deployment of air and soil scrubbers, water filtration and recycling, the cloning and resequencing of native Tuchunka flora and fauna. Asari and human archeological teams had greater freedom on the homeworld, though they stayed mostly in the ruins of the ancient cities. Had it not been for the rachni (_and their own unpredictably pugnacious nature_), many sociological scientists surmised krogan would have very likely been a culture with which to contend, citing many artistic and literate relics as examples.

For instance, a newly discovered philosophical treatise by an ancient krogan known only as 'Kurghal', had startling similarities to _Buddhism_ – in context of the krogan mindset, of course; and several tomes (_incomplete and several volumes missing_) by an unknown author on something called "virtual infinitesimal underpinnings" – an astonishingly sophisticated theoretical discourse (again, for krogan) on the underlying nature of the universe. Buried deep under a collapsed pyramidal structure in the center of the Ancient's city was discovered what appeared to be an art gallery/museum, full of works that had caused a sensation on many of the so-called 'cultured' worlds. The krogan had reached a rather surprising level of cultural sophistication before they'd flung nukes at each other in a great moment of stupidity, and each new revelation of their past seemed to have what one asari scientist called "a calming effect" on krogan populations.

Many saw 'great things ahead' for the krogan – barring a return to old tendencies, of course.

Wrex' most unpopular order had been a new edict _limiting_ population growth. Even Cured, the krogan needed to take things slow, he'd argued. The 'days of the Horde' had been in response to the rachni, he'd pointed out, the greed of ancient warlords who saw only power for themselves, not for the welfare of the krogan people. The krogan would never be used as fodder for the wars of others _ever_ again, he vowed. Citing the examples of the Ancients, krogan could be much, much more than a "sea of violent brutes".

"My _children,"_ he'd said, "_will be taught that the words 'artist', 'doctor', 'scientist', 'engineer' and 'philosopher' are as important as the word 'warrior'. This first generation in over a thousand years will lead the next – as they _should _be led."_

Such statements were lauded nearly universally by non-krogan, and, it had to be said, many krogan were starting to see the caliber of leader they truly had in their Urdnot Overlord.

The salarians were only too happy to encourage such thinking when and wherever they could.

Many were also sent into the Protectorate, to key worlds, to help there with technical setups.

Not _too_ many at first. Krogan were _very_ touchy around their newborns – _especially_ with salarians.

Their enclave on Hranta (_segregated, and they didn't mind at all_) – called in Old Krogan '_Mejk'ua'Thar_' – 'Fount of Hope' - was easily the most sophisticated structure on the planet – save for the almost-completely intact Prothean ruins buried at the center of the continent no one had yet discovered.

It was ringed with security barriers and guarded by handpicked krogan and salarian STG specialists, patrolled by rather lethal drones and constantly scanned by intricate and sensitive sensor devices. There were three hundred salarians in residence, mostly students of various persuasions, overseen by fifty experts in differing fields. The Enclave had been designed to withstand an assault by at least a Fifth Tier krogan Assault Horde.

Urdnot Derkur was, by krogan standards at least, a rather patient individual. A minor chief of the previously-offworld Kerlack Urdnots, he was as fierce as any of his brethren, liked a good fight as much as they – but he approached any battle with slightly more reserve. Derkur preferred analyzing the lay of the land, so to speak, rather than simply charge heedlessly in. It had served him rather well for the last thousand years, (_and made him feared as the leader of the 'Crimson Dead' arm of the Blood Pack_) and would hopefully keep him going for the next thousand. He'd seen a lot in his long life, although he was considered barely middle-aged by krogan standards, but he had to admit, this calm evening on his patrol across the wall of Mejk'ua'Thar; even having fought Reapers and husks – he'd never seen anything like what was about to happen.

It began with a single alarm, somewhere deep in the compound. Being the patient one, Derkur had simply commed the Enclave's Central Operations Oversight and informed them of it, asked for further information. The alarm was silenced a few moments later and attributed to a glitch in software somewhere. Derkur accepted the explanation and went on with his patrol.

Second moon, the silvery one that looked like it had a slightly-flattened asari profile on its face, was just cresting the horizon when he heard another alarm. This alarm was joined by two others, but they were silenced almost immediately. Another comm to the COO received no reply other than a muffled "_Everything's under control_".

Krogan were permitted into the Enclave only via specific requests (_to keep the salarians comfortable_), and thus, even when the screaming began, patient Derkur commed the krogan administrative office to ask permission to investigate.

By the time a reply returned, the screaming was dying away, and the krogan team that rushed in encountered many dead and dying salarians, and many alive, but ranting, raving, seemingly having gone mad. Jor'ghal Revac discovered the anomaly – a figure at the heart of the compound. ragged and with hollow eyes, many dead and yet-screaming salarians around it. It raised an arm at Revac and managed two words:

"_A__**N**__d s__**O**__,"_

…before it was immediately charged, shot multiple times and crushed by sheer brute force, the remains then clamped under starship-grade barriers and surviving sane salarians – those apparently furthest from whatever had befallen the rest, scanning and comming and analyzing.

Within two hours, local time, the remains of whatever it was had been firmly secured and waiting to be sent to Sur'kesh at the best possible speed. The dead and mad catalogued.

The krogan asked no questions.


	25. Last Second Save

**T'SIRI'S HOLLOW**

**ATHENA NEBULA**

**OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**A GRAVITATIONAL ANOMALY**, T'Siri's Hollow, named after the asari astronomer that discovered it, was an open space in the densest part of the Athena Nebula, clear of dust, with only two stars, Hemi'nti and Delina (named after her daughters) within. Only Delina had planets, four of them, one habitable, but uninhabited. It had no resources, shallow seas, a very high oxygen content and vegetation far too tough to eat or cultivate anywhere else, tough enough to survive the endless firestorms that raged across the planet with every lightning strike into the densely-oxygenated atmosphere.

Parked in orbit over one of those raging infernos, the _Blue Shadow_ awaited its rendezvous with the _Phoenix. _Liara contemplated the continent-wide fire blazing below and shivered. She'd seen too many planets already that looked that way, and feared she would see many more. _Change_, she mused, was the one constant in the universe, and it was rarely change anyone tended to anticipate or approve of once it arrived; yet, it was all anyone could really say mattered. All one could do was hope to steer and shape that change to beneficial ends – or failing that, get out of the way and hope you got through with a whole skin.

Liara herself, as the Shadow Broker, was a rather large lever in that engine of change, but even she could only do so much. She did not like what she saw on the horizon, could see only chaos in a Galaxy already hard-pressed to find order and the light, still reeling from a literal near-apocalypse.

Her pilot commed that another ship had entered the Hollow, but couldn't be identified, and she'd gone to stealth mode until they could. Liara looked down at the fire below, sighed lightly and closed the shutter.

She was halfway to the bridge when her pilots commed again to tell her the ship was on a direct intercept vector. It saw through the _Shadow's_ stealth. A sharp "Battle stations!" from Liara and the _Shadow_ was primed, pulling out of orbit, and running to the far side of the planet.

"_Vessel is still in pursuit."_ Right. Not a fluke then.

"Is it in range? Can we see it?" Liara asked, and her Galaxy map swapped out for sensor data. The ship was black, an elegant curved design covered over with white symbols neither she nor her databases could identify. Still seemingly out of range, the ship fired. A moment later, the _Blue Shadow_ bucked, slewed. Reports flew – barriers halved, a few buckled plates, energy disrupted. One shot, not ME-driven, a particle weapon not in the databases, either. It packed a _punch_.

"Return fire!"

"_We're still out of range!"_

"Get us _in range_ and return fire!"

The _Shadow_ banked, rolled over and came back around, quickly closing the gap between it and its attacker. Another shot from it seared the _Shadow's_ portside, but did little damage. She returned fire a moment later, shots hitting what appeared to be a kind of energy barrier and deflecting off. As the Shadow passed it, the ship fired from inside its curve, hitting an engine, shredding it and flipping the _Shadow_ end over end. Her pilot growled, but got her under control.

The attacker had not turned, simply reversed course, weapons still tacking and firing. Their speed now down by a third, _Shadow's_ pilot pulled out her repertoire of fancy maneuvers, only just managing to stay ahead.

The enemy vessel gained, got two more shots in, and the _Blue Shadow_ heeled and rolled, engines out. Inside lights flickered and died, to be replaced by the red of emergency illumination. Repair teams scrambled about her.

"_I have bare sensors, no weapons, no engines!"_ her pilot called. Liara was about to order an evacuation when a comm filtered through the static:

"_Standby, asari vessel,"_ the voice said. "_We are engaging." _It sounded familiar but Liara couldn't place it. Another moment, and normal illumination returned, and her Ops station lit back up. On it, she could see her attacker peel off from her ship as another came into range, this one shaped like a predatory fish. Two shots hit the attacker amidships and cracked it into two pieces, bringing the fight to an abrupt halt.

Their savior came back and pulled alongside.

"_Permission to come aboard,"_ came a moment later. A quick scan showed only two individuals, and Liara weighed the two against her crew of Death Mistress Commandos, decided they could risk it. Four Mistresses took up position by the hatchway and Liara signaled her permission. _Things changed,_ she told herself, _and changed quickly_. _Chaos_, she decided, not change, was the one real truism of existence.

The two people who stepped through that hatch, however…

…changed _everything_.


	26. The Boneyards

**THE 'BONEYARDS'**

**STARSHIP GRAVEYARD**

**ISHAKA-NEWAMI SYSTEM**

**TWENTY LIGHTYEARS FROM THE PERSEUS VEIL**

**OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**"**_**THEY FOUGHT THE BATTLE OF THE FOUR VEILS HERE,**"_ she told him as his ship made its way through the vast field of rubble. They slowly slid past an ancient fighter, and Kassidi could see the turian pilot still in his seat, still in his armor, hands on the controls. She shivered involuntarily at the sight. Soft music played, human music, nothing she recognized.

"I'm not familiar with that one," Black told her, keeping a close eye on his proximity sensors. There were a _lot_ of ships out there, asari, turian, and ships not seen since the Rebellions – _krogan-built_ warships. Behind him, Kassidi leaned back in her seat at the main computer access, and again adjusted the holo-window before her. Black's ship, which he called _Virago,_ had no windows, an extravagance, he told her, "a simple mercenary" could hardly afford. It was a customized Alliance model, waggishly called "drifter-class' by its designers, three times the size of a Kodiak shuttle, roughly matching one of their mid-sized troop transports. It had a manual control scheme, and she'd been surprised by that. An actual yoke and steering system as an option to the standard interfaces. This thing could still be flown, even if the main interface went down. She had thought only quarians still used such 'antiquated' systems. The inside was utilitarian, his living space in the back comfortable, tasteful and well-supplied. It displayed all the indications of having an owner not only deeply cultured, but also enormously intelligent. Her quarters were smaller, but as tasteful, with small feminine touches that had her wondering what he actually used it for – and the room could be completely sealed, vented and scrubbed so she – if she so chose – could go suitless. She'd been again – pleasantly -surprised, and her regard for him went up another notch. The ship was also extremely well-armed, ably-shielded and _fast_.

Kassidi was also beginning to believe there was very little 'simple' about the human before her.

"_It was during the krogan Rebellions. The Perseus Veil used to border on three other, rather smaller nebulas. A huge joint asari-turian taskforce engaged an equally large krogan fleet here. The battle raged for three weeks, and it's said that so much energy was released by the fighting, along with erupted and destroyed drive cores that the other three nebulas were dispersed_." She ran a quick scan. "_It's odd this place is so untouched_."

"With the Perseus Veil that close? I can think of _one _reason why it's been left unmolested, although I'm surprised the quarians had left it alone." A crushed krogan warship drifted past. "…and the krogan."

"_The geth presence likely explain all." _Kassidi watched another shattered hulk go by, an asari lighter this time. "_An odd place for a meeting, isn't it?_"

"I trust the source." He glanced back at her. "Besides, where better to be discreet?"

Black readjusted his course slightly, thought about that source. He'd not heard from _her_ in almost a decade. Using old code, she'd summoned him here, but left a mystery as to why. He either trusted her or he didn't. Black trusted very few, but those he did had _earned_ that trust and then some. So they had diverted and come this way. He had the premonition that this and his mission for Reegar were tied together somehow. Things just seemed to work out that way.

"_I still cannot see how why I need to be here."_ Kassidi repeated her refrain again, said at least once a day. To Black's count that would make seven, so far.

"You've seen the news. You've seen how quarians are being suspected as this – whatever it is – grows."

As usual, Kassidi sighed and said no more. Despite his hospitality, she refused to give him much in the way of interaction, whether through some ethical qualm or faint racism – a racism he surmised was more likely cultural than cultivated, quarian distrust for centuries of distrust by others. Why she should dislike _humans_ he had no clue. As far as he knew, humans had been the quarians' biggest advocates. He shrugged internally. He didn't really care as long as she was as competent as Reegar had intimated. Quarians as a rule were not the best soldiers in the Galaxy, warriors like Reegar more the exception than the rule, their dependence on their suits made them over-cautious and unwilling to take many risks. As fighter pilots, ship techs, they had few equals. Still and all, Black liked quarians just fine. Kassidi had not been the first he'd traveled with – although she might be the last.

"_What is this music, anyway?"_ She asked, after a few more moments of silence.

"Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor, called '_Quasi una fantasia'_, by Beethoven. This is the second movement."

"_I see. Do you often play music while flying?"_

"I do. Quarians have music. I've heard it."

"_Of course we do."_ Slightly irritated. "_We just don't play it often. Can't hear a system go down or a recycler fail with noise blaring everywhere."_

"You don't like it?" A shrug from her.

"_Don't see the point to it."_

Black's proximity sensors went off, and he adjusted course, killed the music.

"_What's the matter?" _She came for'ard, leaned around him to look at his board. Quarians had a unique smell, and female quarians, like many females all liked to smell like… well, females. Kassidi, soldier or not, smelled faintly of the _neepi'lei _flower, native to Rannoch. But then, she was in an expensive, top-of-the-line envirosuit. He'd smelled a few down-on-their-luck, and flowers was the _last_ smell he'd associated with them. She smelled rather nice, he thought, but kept it to himself. For some reason, he just felt like prodding her, but resisted the impulse.

"Mine. That may very well be the other reason this place hasn't been salvaged yet." He did a quick sensor sweep – mine indicators sprang up scattered through the 'boneyard'. "According to this, they're turian chain-mines. Detonate one and they roll through in sequence. Unpleasant."

"_Lovely."_ The signal he'd been expecting returned. He altered course again. As he did, his sensors picked up a track, began to trace it.

"Hmmm."

"_What?"_ He frowned.

"Take a seat." He gestured to his co-pilot chair, set in a small blister to the side. "Odd track coming in. Sensors can't identify it." He shifted his course, pulled a flight harness around himself, cinched it. "Personally, I'm not one for stopping and waiting to see what it might be. You can scan more thoroughly in the blister, also control my lateral cannon."

Kassidi nodded, approving. She climbed into the blister, took a quick survey of the controls, sync'd her suit through the interface port, cinched herself into the chair and began running scans.

Black was pulling the _Virago_ "up" – trying to get out of the plane of the debris. Kassidi was concentrating hard on the scans, comparing waveforms and energy emissions. They were unusual, but they looked for all of Rannoch like…

"_Missiles!"_ she exclaimed. "_Vector 113, behind us… on an intercept course with…"_ she rotated the scan control, projected it_. _

Black could see instantly where it was headed.

"Not us!"

"_A mine!"_ Kassidi cried at the same time. Black slewed the _Virago_ to port as hard as he could, looking for the quickest exit from the debris field, just as the missiles impacted the mine. Behind them, they started to explode in succession. If there was any wonder in just how potent those ancient mines were, an ancient asari frigate near one blew into tiny, tiny pieces. Black kicked his engines as hard as he dared, trying to balance the rather urgent need for speed with his ability to maneuver – like many vehicles, the faster it went, the more difficult it was to turn. Behind them, the chain was detonating in sequence – and it was catching up.

Beside him, Kassidi was glued to the tracking array, calling out distances to all the debris that could be tracked – some could be heard _whanging_ off the hull as he peeled past and around hulks. As the mines detonated, they also destroyed anything nearby – and that meant debris coming at them at high speeds, making an exit even more treacherous.

"_We are only seconds ahead of that chain!"_ Kassidi yelled, calling out another vector. Black rolled the _Virago_ over, dropped his speed for a moment and 'dove' under a wrecked turian cruiser and accelerated just as a mine behind them detonated. The pressure bubble smacked the _Virago_, and Black turned her into it, riding it for a moment and then darting away. The cruiser behind them convulsed as a mine hidden in it blew. A huge chunk of plating hit the _Virago_ hard, and the lights flickered and dampeners failed. Kassidi was flung sideways, her head hitting the bulkhead to her right solidly, saw stars, thought she heard a crack, but had no time to check. To starboard, a dozen klicks away, another mine went up, and Black glanced at the scan, tried to see where the next one would be… and it detonated next to them, the _Virago_ bucked and rolled and the lights went out.

A moment later they came back, and another pressure bubble slammed them from the front, fuses sparking all over, the barriers barely holding. Black literally flipped the _Virago_ over and kicked her back the way they had come. Behind them, the mines kept detonating, but they were safe – for the moment, at any rate. Black ran a quick scan. Nothing in the vicinity. He set his alert sensors to _very_ sensitive as he slipped behind a krogan ship with a huge gash in its side and powered down.

"_We're damaged," _Kassidi told him, slightly calmer. "_Barriers are out. Anterior plating has ruptured and we're down an entire sensor pallet. There's also leak somewhere in your port engine coolant delivery system."_ A pause. "_No, your whole CDS is down."_

She felt a trickle of a warm something on her forehead, and her brain felt fuzzy. Her visor was badly cracked, the hardened viewport broken. Her HUD showed her all the damage in fine detail. Too much.

"_I am also injured." _She looked at him with a nod. "_Yes. I believe I'll pass out now."_ Which she promptly did, slumping in her harness.

Black unhooked himself, climbed over, examined her. Her visor was broken, and he could hear her internal pressure venting slowly. Black sighed, pulled her from the chair, carried her back to her quarters – grabbing a med-kit along the way - and sealed the room, waiting patiently for the air to scrub. There was nothing he could do about any contamination he brought with him, but figured it was the least of her problems at this point. When the chime sounded that everything had equalized, Black bent over her prone form, searched for the seal-locks, and after a moment found them, pulled her mask free. Another few moments, and he had her cowl back, and her whole head exposed.

"Well," he said to her unconscious form. "A pity such a sour attitude lives behind such an appealing face."

She had a broad forehead with the typical quarian suit linkages, delicate arched eyebrows, one bisected by a nasty gash, evenly-spaced slightly-slanted eyes and a straight nose with a upward slanted tip. Her lips were full and her chin round but narrow. She had close-cropped auburn hair. Her skin was smooth but pallid.

Black treated the gash with some medigel, carefully laid a sterile fabric bandage over it. Locating her personal effects, Black hoped she'd a spare mask, frowned when he found only the half-mask many were adopting as they re-acclimated to their homeworld. Many quarians viewed it as a transitory thing – a mid-point to someday living without them altogether. A wrap-around HUD component lay under it, and he pulled both from her case, readjusted her on the bunk, checked her vitals with a mediscan – only a slight concussion, nothing more serious - and left both mask and HUD where she could see it when she awoke. He wondered if she'd resent him seeing her face, as quarians viewed that an extremely intimate thing, but it had been that or let her bleed.

He shrugged, stepped from the room, set the scrubbers to get it as clean as they could and went back to his cockpit, mind going back to the attack.

Whomever had launched those missiles had not followed up – or they had lost the _Virago_ in the debris and radiation the detonations had scattered everywhere. He sat back down, ran a few passive scans, but found nothing. The holo-display showed nothing but the dark and silent hull of a long-dead krogan warship.

With a sigh, Black went aft to fix his CDS.

When he returned, he could hear a faint crackling over his comm array, activated it.

"Virago…" said amongst the heavy static, the voice unidentifiable. "…_ome in. We've detected recen… plosions. Respond. This is… TES _Phoenix_. Do …copy?"_

Black's eyes narrowed. A quick vector check showed the transmission originating from roughly the same area as the missiles. As ploys went, it was a rather rudimentarily stupid one. He rigged and programmed a remote drone, a small one, recorded a brief message, sent it to track two thousand kilometers from his position. It was small enough to get lost in the debris and rad-cloud.

Using a passive scan, he waited, and listened in.

"_Phoenix," _the drone replied. "_This is _Virago_. We are damaged and unable to move under own power. Can you assist? Coordinates follow."_

"_Standby,_ Virago," the reply came, stronger, a cool, hard-edged female voice. A half-minute later, an intense beam of light speared through the field and impacted squarely on the probe, detonating with immense force, smashing it to its component atoms. Debris around it likewise vanished. The _Virago_ shifted slightly as the shockwave propagated to him, and he nodded to himself, impressed. Using it as cover, he first fired another very small probe – this time an acoustic emulator passive-linked to his ship, and then fired his thrusters in a few short bursts, aimed his ship at the large breach in the krogan warship's hull, drifted into it on inertia. Once inside, a few quick series of commands and the _Virago_ powered completely off.

That was not the _Phoenix,_ then. Not even close.

The probe he'd fired would relay any engine emissions of a passing ship back to him as vibration – its signal easily missed in the now-heavily irradiated debris field. It was an old trick he'd learned long ago.

The air was beginning to cool and thin out as the emulator finally relayed a rumble that grew in intensity – a rather large ship was slowly passing near him. Black held his breath as it passed, hoping he had chosen his hiding spot well. Another few tense minutes passed, and the emulator registered the rumble dying away to finally vanish altogether.

Black waited until he could see his breath in the cabin and his lungs started to complain, then powered the _Virago _to absolute bare minimum, just to have the oxygen cyclers back on, waited another ten minutes.

Nothing.

Keeping the _Virago_ at bare minimum, he slowly fired his smallest docking thrusters, just small puffs of gas to edge the ship ever so slowly from the breach and back into open space, doing his best to match the drift of the other ships set in motion by the shockwave that had killed his initial probe. He waited another ten full minutes.

Still nothing.

He activated a few systems – minor ones, heat, basic scanners and interior diagnostics. Ran a quick scan. The _Virago_, aside from a few minor easily-repairable troubles, was flightworthy. Kassidi was still unconscious, but seemed nominal.

Black kicked the _Virago_ to full operations and unashamedly ran for it.

* * *

**ON THE OTHER SIDE** of the 'Boneyard', the ship that had been hunting him let him run.

It's Captain, in his black armor and it's skeletal heraldry, smiled to himself. Nice trick. _Old_ trick, but worth the gamble. With anyone else, it might have worked. But _this_ hunter had hunted a very long time, and he was _very_ good at it.

He ordered his pilot, "Take us on a wide intercept course. We'll follow discretely."

The ship turned to follow. He leaned back, crossed his arms, listened to the ship hum around him.

"Now, _this_ takes me back."

The _Virago_ flew on.


	27. Welcome to The Crazy

**LOCATION UNKNOWN**

**SYSTEM UNKNOWN**

**DATE UNKNOWN  
**

* * *

_"I have seen the dark universe yawning_  
_Where the black planets roll without aim,_  
_Where they roll in their horror unheeded,_  
_Without knowledge, or lustre, or name."_

* * *

**HIS LAUGHTER HAD DIED AWAY.**

Only a vague sense of immense grief and longing remained, regret for knowledge he would never and could never know, the despair of knowing it was just… over _there, _eternally beyond his reach.

Something else felt odd in him - he felt as if he no longer had the capacity to lie. There was simply no longer any point to the practice. No longer lie. Not to himself, not to anyone else. It just seemed… futile.

There was a crackling sound from behind him, a ripping-zipping noise that set his teeth on edge. The floor grew a shape and released it. A human female – or an incredible copy of one – took one step and looked up at him with eyes that were black pits that seemed to go deeper than her skull would allow. She, like him, was as naked as a newborn, but of a physical perfection not even literature could describe, nor any fantasies beyond fantastic. This woman was human, _female - _ in the _exalted_ sense, perfected past any human idea of perfection. Shepard's instant erection might have embarrassed him if he'd been anywhere else, but it was a perfectly understandable reaction, made long before his mind had even been aware of the blood moving within him. Even as he watched "she" 'devolved', leaving impossible perfection behind for common humanity, and Shepard stopped reacting and finally started thinking again. With bowed head, she was suddenly wearing clothes, a dark uniform - and he'd not seen them form on her and he'd not taken his eyes off her the whole time. It was only when he moved that he realized that he too had been clad, dressed in his old N7 leathers from graduation.

When she looked up with straw-blonde hair hanging over violet eyes and those high cheekbones, Shepard started, for he _recognized_ her.

_"Mulholland_?!" She smiled at him, that old grin that simultaneously mocked him and seemed to promise him… other things. He'd never had the guts to try, had always half-regretted it.

"_Fuck_, Shepard, you look like shit that's been shat from something _really_ ugly, beaten, eaten and then shat again."

"You're dead." The stupidly-obvious out of his mouth before he could stop himself. She walked up to him, stopped, cocked her head at him, then tapped him squarely between the eyes. The finger felt human, her breath and smell of her skin.

"I'm as alive as you are. So's my memory in you. Here, there's no difference between the memory and the reality – well, as close to the conception of reality of which _you're_ capable."

"Who – what - are you – really?"

"'Really'? That's tricky. At best - an amalgam ...I think." She pointed to the colossal being suspended above them. "Yesterday, I was myself, with an image of myself in my own mind that I knew to be me, with my own memories and my own ambitions. Today, I'm the same, but full of a past I don't recognize, but _know_ is mine. I am that me and I am this me, and for some reason I doubt I'll ever understand, they are both correct. Does that make sense?"

"About as much as you ever made." He said it with a smile, couldn't help it. If she were an illusion, she was a welcome one. There were few people – dead or alive – that he'd trusted more than she.

She smiled back.

"Fair enough. As to why, I'm… necessary. I'm a thing to facilitate interaction that leaves you sane. There is no reason to me personally being here, other than the obvious, I was simply plucked randomly. I'm just one you trusted, a voice you found credible."

She frowned.

"As to just who brought me and you… all I know is… " she pointed again to the immense being above them, seemed to fade out slightly, speaking as if the words were being dropped into her head for her to repeat. "…that _that _is an utter inconsequentiality to and of its creators, but even as such, its simplest thought would crush you and I into our component atoms and beyond, and this interaction is but a molecule swirling around a molecule, so insignificant a task it is for its full awareness. We're simply too limited to understand it fully, and that's not an insult. Just a fact."

Shepard nodded. Of course it was. Facts and their reality, well, they've always been flexible, depending on where one stood.

"Exactly this," she nodded. "A man at the bottom of a chasm sees it as all there is, wonders at the sky above. A man on the rim of that chasm sees the larger world around it. How does the man above explain that greater reality to one who has lived forever between those walls in those shadows? And if one lives in orbit above that sky? How is it explained then?"

She swept an arm across the vast space around them.

"You see this, but this isn't actually here – there's no reality to it you can comprehend, but it _is_ real. It is not an I, nor is it there or here. Only you and I are here."

"Look, I could ask all the usual stupid questions and rattle out the dumb clichés, but could you just…"

"I don't have an explanation our minds would accept. To describe this thing we experience now negates that experience. To uncover for you the fundamental basis of reality would negate our reality. If you do not uncover the process of discovery for yourself, you cannot understand. Reality does not tolerate the ignorant."

"That almost makes actual sense."

"Of course, even if we _could_ understand the reality of where we are – if we can be considered to be anywhere at all – we would be changed so utterly by that understanding that it would be as if we never were – all we are as we are now would be undone. We would be… else. But we would have no way to know if what we think we understand is actually factual, without a point of reference, of which we would have none, nor can possess. It would be if I described a meal you've never heard of, made of ingredients you've never tasted, or ever will."

"The more I understand, the less I know. You _can_ tell me, but it'd be pointless. I figured that was the way it was heading, so it's not really much of a revelation."

"It is one that has killed uncounted multitudes. The revelation is that it's one of only the very few facts our kind are truly capable of understanding, yet to it, we are blind as if we'd never known sight."

Shepard shook his head. It was past odd to hear Mulholland talk this way. She had never been much of a philosopher. She'd been an extraordinary woman, one who enjoyed _being_ a woman to the utmost extent of her being – probably why she'd attracted him so, _and _scared the crap out of him – but she'd never needed any 'deep' explanations for life or her place in the universe.

"I'm here," this copy(?) of the long-dead woman said, reading his mind, saying that which the Mulholland he remembered had once told him in a rare moment of introspection, "I'm alive, every emotion I have I'm happy to have, every feeling my body feels reinforces its own reality. I'm glad to _be_. That's enough."

"That was my Amy, all right." He shook his head. It was too easy to lose himself in the memories.

"_Your_ Amy?" She sent him a look of incredulity – with a smile.

"Well," he replied, stumbling a bit. "Mine in the sense that you're not the one I knew personally. Yeah?"

She nodded with a slight scoff and a '_humpf_'.

"I have everything she knew and _your_ memories of her too, Shepard."

"You can't condemn a man for thoughts he never acted on."

She laughed.

"Relax." She sent him an impish smile. "You should have acted on a least one or two. She wouldn't have minded at all."

"_Now_ you tell me." He laughed with her, and for a moment it felt like the past, but that was not a place Shepard visited very often.

"So – why am I here at all, then?"

"You were noticed, I guess is the best way to describe it. You're a …_fulcrum_. A locus of events. A relative rarity. _Such_ a rarity one of the Lesser determined you were worth saving. You ended the '...'."

Shepard winced. It was the first time words ever _hurt_. No, not the words, the _concept_ contained _in_ the words. There was so much information meant to be imparted in it that his brain simply couldn't process it. Amy wove in and out of herself and her 'message' as it were as she spoke.

"Sorry, I didn't get that last bit."

"The concept is… beyond us. Let me see… you ended the Fractured Harvest."

"I stopped the Reapers?" A nod.

"It hadn't been Planned, but it had been interesting enough to allow. The culls of the Machine cycles created their own evolutionary dynamics. Much was Recycled, so little of value had been lost."

"They're talking about the lives of_ trillions_, as if they were nothing but…"

"_Our_ conception of life. Don't presume we have the sole definition – or the correct one."

"Murder is murder," he muttered.

"Murder is a legalistic and morally artificial term." She told him, those 'other' words taking over. "All these terms are meaningless, these limits you place on your own perceptions facile and inherited. You have been taught poorly, of what came before and not what is coming. You crawl instead of fly. Yet, even these judgments are meaningless. Evolution has no plan, no ethical artifice, no empty morals, it does not murder, it simply is. Life creates it. _Only_ life matters. Death and birth are the progenitors of the other. Life is simply the process by which evolution proceeds. It is neither conscious nor a living process in itself, it is merely _change_ both subtle and broad. It is not a belief system nor philosophy, it is not knowledge nor instinct. It can be shaped, it can be given direction, but it cannot be stopped, it cannot be wished away, it cannot be denied. Even as it is controlled, it influences. Even those who created me and you and that above us and all you know are not its ultimate master, for it shapes even them."

"They still sound like gods."

Mulholland scoffed. She seemed to be getting better control over herself.

"There are no gods. Gods are self-imposed limits on the universe which do nothing but stifle an organism's evolution. There is only thought and perception, curiosity and experience, and the uncertainty that these conceptions have ever existed at all. There is no reality, only certainty in the conception of the idea of the suspicion that reality may possibly contain within itself the probability that it may actually exist."

"So, they have no idea who or what created them, either?" She smiled.

"What directs me has never seen them, they exist beyond mundane perception, beyond possibly even their own perceptions of themselves. No, whomever brought me here don't know who or what they are, the merest sliver of an idle thought from one would crush the collective brains of entire civilizations; they only know they exist. Perhaps they were the very first evolved consciousness, billions of years old, thus impossible to know. Yet, they exist, they are in and part of the universe. The place you call home, your galaxy, they forged as a crucible for study - the Receptacle, names given only for reference for those few who discover them – and you are products of their experiments in evolution. All I can say is that, as they are, they too are merely outcomes of evolution, yet they know its mysteries, they manipulate its forces, they give it new directions. You can only see their shadows, can only feel the barest ebb of their passing. You will never know them, for by the time you _can_ know them, they will yet be so far past you their mystery will not change. Perhaps they are merely primal forces, perhaps they are the masters of such, perhaps they are both. You felt what happened when you entered into the presence of one of their most insignificant servants - that above us. What you experienced earlier was only its' most base perception of you – simply being noticed almost destroyed you."

"Yeah – I had that inkling. About that sanity thing…" From nowhere the memory punched him hard in the arm.

"You asked, jackass."

"Fine." He rubbed his arm. He wasn't sure if all of this was simply his mind descending into madness and creating 'explanations' to spare itself, or the last fading, twisted memories of dying synapses. Either way…

"I appreciate what clarity to that there was. Having been 'noticed' I'm to do what, exactly?

"You are to be …preserved."

"Excuse me?"

"From the Selection." The huge space before them suddenly showed the entirety of the Milkiway. "The Pathosis had been unleashed, the Resumption has begun."

"'Resumption'? 'Pathosis'? Why do I like neither of those words?"

"Your instincts knows of their inevitability. All serve the Paradigm. They were allowed to be interrupted by the Fractured Harvest, but now the Progression resumes. The Pathosis is the agent of the Resumption. The Selected have been done so and will be observed, the rest Culled or Revised. Such has been the purpose of your Receptacle."

"They're going to continue what the Leviathans started?!"

"No. The creatures you call Leviathans started nothing. Their Reapers and their Harvest were a grossly-flawed imitation of the Paradigm. Inefficient and wasteful. The Pathosis is inevitable. Unlike the Reapers, it _will not_ be stopped once unleashed."

Mulholland paused. She – or whatever it was that had been feeding her the information - seemed to hesitate, then decide.

"If not _for_ the Pathosis, you would _not_ have halted the Harvest."

Shepard blinked.

"_What?"_


	28. Snatch and Grab

**M'MON'UAV'RA'HOEN**

**"CITY OF THE DELTA"**

**SUR'KESH**

**OCTOBER, 2188  
**

* * *

**IT WAS THE ONLY PLACE** it had appeared that set off alarms. The figure coalesced in the middle of a busy plaza, had settled on the ground. A moment later, it sent a pulse that had flashed through the whole city before it found itself locked behind several layers of a high-density set of kinetic barriers, and salarian STG teams were running with stasis field generators even as it realized what had happened. Inside the 'bubble' of barriers, the figure reached two appendages to either side of itself and touched the barriers. They flexed, but they held. The SF generators were activated and the figure stopped moving altogether.

Save for about one hundred salarians, mostly elderly, there were no other casualties, and no one reported any ill effects. The one hundred were speedily gathered and sent to be tested.

A rather tall salarian, one Doctor Heftan Dolus, renowned for his work on the Crucible and chief investigating officer for the Dalatrass, omnitool activated, approached it cautiously, flanked by a dozen heavily-armed guards, and his team of scientists, all dragging heavy equipment behind them.

"It seems… puzzled," he informed them, omnitool scanning. "It's fortunate the krogan sent us that other, or the death toll could have been much, much higher." Inside the bubble, the construct revolved slowly, possibly analyzing its situation. There was a crackle and the barriers solidified, as several more layers were integrated.

"What did you make of its attack, sir?"

"Different from the others, yes. It made turians and humans kill each other, paralyzed the drell on Kahje, and they are soon to perish. I want all medical reports collated as soon as possible, all autopsies in our possession as soon as possible."

"Lifters are incoming, sir." Dolus was told by an aide. "All air-lanes and population centres below the transit route are being cleared. Rohntin Facility will be ready when we arrive."

"Excellent. I want the quick-deploy cryo measures in place as a backup. Also, have them prepare the DSF. We're taking no chances." A salute and the aide bent to his omnitool.

"Is the drop system failsafe really necessary, Doctor?" Salau Fal', his compositional analyzer.

"It is." Dolus began walking around the bubble. "You've seen the data. If this gets loose, it can conceivably kill entire cities – if not more. The implications of these devices is quite horrendous." His omnitool flashed again, double-checking the barrier. "If it gets loose, I _will_ drop the lab into that volcanic vent. It might survive molten rock, it might not, but it won't escape easily." Dolus stopped, narrowed his eyes at the thing. It stopped revolving to 'look' directly at him. "Yes – we know you're a device, thanks to the krogan and your inability to kill them – if it _was _such. I _will_ understand you – even if I must dissect each individual atom to do so."

The figure extended an 'arm', gently touched the inner barrier. It rippled, then shorted out and vanished. One of the techs yelped and another barrier snapped back into its place, to also be almost immediately shorted out. As it went, the techs raised another. It too went the way of its predecessors. As quickly as it killed the inner barrier, the techs raised a new one.

"Curious," Dolus said. He turned back to his techs. "Stop. Be prepared to raise new ones. Let's see what it is actually trying to do."

"Doctor – I think it's obvious," Fal' said, but Dolus shook his head.

"Never assume the obvious always applies." He told him. Before them, another layer of barrier shorted out, then another. Dolus stood calmly, eying the figure with a steady gaze, the hollow 'eyes' of it staring back. Four more layers vanished before the figure withdrew its appendage and stopped. Dolus crooked a finger and the barrier system replaced all that had been lost.

"s**O I**t **b**E**G**in**S**." Was all it said.

The figure started to rearrange itself, shrinking in, collapsing, finally rendering itself down to what appeared to be an odd shape on the ground. It was not easy to focus on for any extended period. Dolus immediately scanned it with his omnitool.

"Astonishing! It is now in what appears to be a demipenteractic honeycomb configuration. It is _still_ folding over, however." He shook his head, openly impressed. "It also appears that its previous action was a simple test of our intentions. This may be some form of standby state." He turned to his team. "Regardless, this thing will be treated as if it were an unstable solar core, understood?" Heads bobbed in the affirmative around him. The lifter craft arrived and the object was loaded. Even as it was, an aide came running.

"Sir! Rhos'En'Rhot Sector, Sehn'Suh'cht Principality and the Harh'Zelh'aid Annex have all reported similar instances!"

"Casualties?"

"At the moment, it seems only among the very young or the very old."

"Dispatch teams at once! Leave _nothing_ uninvestigated!" The aide ran off. Dolus turned back to his personal craft, secretary in tow.

"I want new teams sent to _every_ area we have data on. Request again that an investigative team be allowed back to Hranta. We _need_ to know what's going on." The secretary nodded, bent to his omnitool.

Salau Fal' watched the frenzy, felt his disquiet growing, following along. When there was a pause in Dolus' order-giving, he asked,

"Sir… what do you think is happening?" Dolus stopped, contemplated. His frown seemed to pull his whole face downward.

"The data suggests… no, it is too unsettling. Which means it is likely true. Salau, I need you to oversee Rohntin." Dolus resumed walking to his vehicle.

"What will you be doing, sir?"

"I need to find Padok Wiks."


	29. Looser Ends

**"THE SPIRE"**

**PERSEUS VEIL NEBULA**

**OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**THE _VIRAGO_ MET THE _PHOENIX_** and the meeting had been a tense one after the incident in the 'Boneyards'. Only Shizuka's reassurances persuaded Black to allow the ship within a thousand kilometres.

Once all the bonafides had been checked and everyone finally satisfied, the _Virago _was safely docked in the _Phoenix_' bay and Kassidi rested comfortably in the medbay, still unconscious, although she appeared to be close to coming out of it. Fortunately, Asha'Rhaal had both the expertise with quarian physiology and spare parts to repair Kassidi's faceplate.

"I would prefer her helmet repaired and back in place before she awakes," Duke had informed 'Rhaal. "She is contentious enough without knowing I had to see her face to do the patchwork I did."

'Rhaal nodded. The cultural importance of a quarian's face would likely linger for quite some time. 'Rhaal could not have cared less who saw her face, but she doubted, even with the planet back and the geth help, that quarians wouldn't shed the "seeing one's face means great intimacy" conceit any time soon.

After introductions, and a somewhat cool welcome by Shizuka to her old comrade, Black had been filled in and brought up to speed. The crew had been assembled as he'd relayed everything he knew from the encounter in the Boneyards and on Kahje.

"So it _is_ a mechanism?" Asha'Rhaal had asked, happy to have it confirmed.

"It seems so," Black told her. "An incredibly sophisticated one." Riley was looking him over with some suspicion and Tsuchi Hoshiko with curiosity. So far he had shown no outward signs of recognition and Tsuchi-_san_ appeared as serene as she always did.

"Kassidi can tell you more. She scanned it quite thoroughly – or as thoroughly as possible with an omnitool."

"A quarian's omnitool is _never_ a standard omnitool," Asha told him to another nod.

"It seemed to have a very specific agenda. We apparently stopped it in mid-execution, so to speak, although most of the drell affected have likely already died."

Miranda looked to Asha.

"Any confirmation on that and do we know how?"

"Anything official simply states they died of 'unknown causes', although I suspect all were euthanized. What I can uncover says they were paralyzed to such a state that only their minds and respiratory systems functioned, and then only barely."

Illemna Rafleen shook her head.

"A grim way to die."

"There are very few pleasant ways to die, I think," Hoshiko said softly from her seat beside her.

"We'll go over this more thoroughly when your companion wakes up," Miranda informed them. "Mr. Black…"

"'Duke' is acceptable, Commander Lawson."

"Duke… would you prefer to stay on your ship, or would you rather quarters here?"

"My own ship, I think. I prefer my solitude, such as it is. No offence is intended."

"None is taken. Please yourself," she told him. "Dismissed."

"Our next step?" He asked her as the rest dispersed back to their work.

She informed of their _next_ acquisition for personnel, and he laughed so heartily that Shizuka had seemingly taken offence and stalked off.

_Some things go deep_. He watched her leave, was told Kassidi was awake. He shook his head in sympathy for his old comrade, went to the medbay. Inside, Kassidi was sitting up when he arrived. She was arguing – no surprise – with Asha'Rhaal.

"Untreated, you could have had an embolism. The blow was _very_ hard to do the damage it did through your helmet."

"_You can walk around this ship without one."_

A shrug.

"I've adapted. It happens."

"_You don't care everyone can see your face?" _'Rhaal rolled her opalescent eyes.

"I should care about quarian tradition? I'm a _biotic_. As far as the Fleet's concerned, I and anyone like me doesn't exist." Kassidi frowned. She'd heard rumours, everyone had, naturally. It just seemed... unlikely.

"_There are no quarian biotics."_

'Rhaal floated a spare faceplate from across the room, dropped it in Kassidi's lap. Behind her faceplate her eyes widened.

"Then I'm a figment of your imagination."

_"How...?"_

"The Admiralty love their little secrets. Ask the 'Zorah line sometime just how much."

Both she and Kassidi noticed Black after a moment. Kassidi decided to shelve the existence of this biotic for now, but had a few rather pointed questions in mind for her next report to Kal'Reegar.

"_Well… you obviously repaired the ship and got us here."_

"Obviously." He leaned against a med-cabinet. "You're functional?"

"_Mostly. I have a once-a-century headache. Do we know what happened?"_

"So far, no contact. We are likely being followed, however. Until that ship actually engages us again, Ms. Lawson is going to proceed as if it were not."

"_That thing had serious firepower. Is ignoring it wise? If it's following us…"_

"As I said, until it engages us again… waiting serves no purpose."

"_Right. Of course." _ Kassidi put her head down, sighed to herself. 'Rhaal poked her with a finger.

"We would like your omnitool data on the thing you scanned on Kahje." Kassidi stuck her arm up, tried to wave her off.

"_I sent it to Rannoch already."_

"Not what I asked," 'Rhaal rejoined. She indicated Black. "He works for us, now, which means you do too. Data, please." Her tool flared, and she waited.

Kassidi raised her head, looked at Black, back to 'Rhaal. She hesitated, looked back at Black, who sent her an arched eyebrow.

"_I don't think I work _for _either of you,"_ she said, but her omnitool flared and she sent the data. "_A consultant's fee is acceptable, however."_

'Rhaal blinked, said dryly, "I'll let the Commander know."

_Nice to see there is more to her. Good. _Black smiled at her, got a small nod in return.

"You _are_ feeling better."

"_Like I said, an unattractive bruise and a beautiful headache. I've had worse." _She paused, pondered him. "_You take strange voyages, Mr. Black."_

"'Duke', please." He turned to go. "Get all the rest you can while you can. I have a feeling this voyage will only get stranger."

"_I.. uh, appreciate what you did for me during that attack. Thank you."_

"You'll do better next time." A dry smile.

"_You're a very …extraordinary human."_

"'Extraordinary'. A diplomatic way to say 'strange'." He made it to the medbay door, stopped, looked back. "Both are true, so either is appropriate."

A moment later, Kassidi actually _laughed_, and Black took a small bow and his leave. He stopped by the facilities, then made it almost back to the cargo bay when he was stopped by Ilola Jamilah. She appeared to have been waiting for him, leaning against the wall.

"So – you're _the_ Winston Black, huh?" It was not a question. She gave him an up-and-down assessment.

"I am the only one of which I am aware. You?"

"Ilola Jamilah. Weapon tech and gunnery officer."

"Are you a biotic like the others?" He didn't see any obvious amps. She shrugged.

"High Alpha. I can mod barriers and ammo." She held up her left hand. Around her wrist a silver bracelet inscribed with intricate designs – her amp. "I can do it _very_ well."

"Alpha?" That was a new one on him.

"Military classification. They changed the designations just before the War, rather than try and keep up with all the amp categories. 'Alphas' to 'Omegas'. I think someone thought they were being ironic or witty. An Alpha is between an L1 to low-grade L3R level. Deltas are in the L5 to the L5x9 ranges. The most extremely powerful are Omega-classes. That's matriarch-level. There aren't a lot of those."

"I see. Interesting."

"You served in the 615th in Europe, didn't you?" Again, not a question, a change of tack he'd not expected. He was not flustered by it, however.

"I _commanded_ the 615th, in Europe, actually. From Caen to the Baranavichy Redoubt."

"You had a command crew of about fifteen, no?"

"I did."

"Tactical Officer by the name of Elijah Owusu?"

"Yes. One of four. He was killed in a husk swarm during the Leipzig Push. Promoted far too quickly – and far out of his ability. Had I my way, I would have had him shot under emergency military ordinances long before. Frankly - and I never say this lightly - the man was a fool." She nodded, frowned at him, but did not appear overly distressed by the revelation.

"A fool?"

"The kind that gets far better soldiers killed."

"He was that bad?"

"I lost twenty-five good soldiers because he directly and willfully disobeyed me." He pointed to the N7 badge on his chest. She followed the finger, looked back to his face. "This is not a party favour. He thought he knew better. He was _wrong_." Black reassessed. "You knew him?"

"He was a brother. One of them."

Black took a single step back.

"Condolences, but I offer no apologies."

Jamilah suddenly smiled, waved that away.

"Wouldn't expect one. We weren't even _remotely_ close, and he _was_ a damn fool. Before the War, he managed to bankrupt his family and then tried to do it to mine. That was when he could stay out of prison long enough." She sighed, shook her head. "The family didn't know how he died. I figured I would ask someone who _would_." She sighed again. "That whole side of the family seemed to be full of fools."

"A pity he could not find a positive direction in his life."

"Says an _assassin_." A smirk.

"I'm not an assassin."

"That's your rep."

Black just smiled at that.

"Then the galaxy is also full of fools."

She seemed amused.

"True enough. What are you then?"

"I prefer to think of myself as a professional …troubleshooter. Eliminating someone is often only part of a job."

Jamilah pushed herself off the wall, gave him the once-over again.

"A mercenary, then."

"Most cannot afford me. Some do not need to. I must be a very _poor _mercenary in more ways than one, that being the case, no?"

"Well, that's all I wanted to know. I'm the curious type." She made to go around him, stopped when she was parallel to him, looked to be considering something then made up her mind. A moment later, she said quietly,

"I'm also available, later, if you need some, uh… tension relief. No strings."

Black blinked. That was rather …unexpected.

"A… most intriguing offer, madam."

"Oh, it's _genuine_." She answered with a low laugh, her rich voice adding layers that easily stroked the more overtly-male parts of his brain, added as a qualifier. "Though not common. Like I said, I'm the curious type."

"I'm honored," he said, sincere. "I shall definitely consider it."

Jamilah patted him on the behind as she left.

"I'll let you know."

Black stood there a moment, chuckled to himself and continued on.

Strange voyages? They had their moments.

* * *

"**You hold grudges a great while, Hammer,"** he told her, having found her glaring at the stars from a small lounge on the portside of the ship.

Shizuka huffed, turned her glare to him. He looked the same from their days together under Conner, then Shepard – minor changes, but he didn't appear to have aged at all. A few traces of white in his dark hair, a few new scars perhaps. Her last memory of him had been the look on his face when she'd stormed off after calling him an "emotionless lackey".

Damn it. He hadn't deserved that.

"You forgive too damn easy." Black leaned casually against a bulkhead, crossed his arms. _A request or a statement?_ he wondered. His old friend and comrade, passionate and headstrong, never ambivalent about anything, her universe 'yes' and 'no', and never a 'maybe' to be had. Yet, she certainly understood nuance, shades of grey, absolute only in her passions and long-considered opinions. Not that she couldn't be wrong. Once, he had loved her as he would have were she a lover, then as a sister when he knew her affections tended elsewhere. He was also the only one to use her first name, and the only one allowed - once.

"I don't forgive or condemn, Akilah. I simply gain perspective."

Her gaze softened, slightly, turned inward.

"Must be nice not to feel anything." A gentle hand fell on her shoulder. Shizuka looked up into his face, as serene and compassionate as she remembered. She also remembered resenting the hell out of him for that ability, even in the middle of the blazing, blasting hell of warfare. He just smiled at her words.

"Sorry," she relented, apologizing for all of it. "I'm…" Black shook his head.

"I may not forgive nor condemn, Akilah, but I never forget," he told her with sincerity, taking her hand, kissing it softly. "You owe me no apologies. I am happy to see you again."

Shizuka couldn't help herself, pulled her hand away with a small laugh.

"Damn charming bastard," she told him, holding her hand back out to be shook firmly.

"Yes," he replied with a smile, thinking of his day so far. "Apparently so."

"Been too long since anyone used that name. Kinda missed it." A small smile he found encouraging. "I will admit I feel better with this OP now that you're here." She told him, going back to gazing at the stars and the jutting spear of gas from the Perseus Veil astronomers called the 'Spire', although some more crude had called it other things. It didn't look like _that_, Shizuka mused, at least, not _anymore_. "The whole thing's as daft as a vorcha ballet troupe."

Black skipped ahead to what was actually bothering her. Not the mission, certainly not. The possibility of her own death troubled her not a whit. Others, however…

"Flynn _will_ be an asset."

"You don't know that." He saw her jaw muscles bunch as she ground her teeth. "He was barely trustworthy at the best of times." Black frowned. His memories were a little different than hers of that time.

"Your bias is coloring your memories, Akilah."

She turned blazing eyes back on him.

"I _know_ what he did, Winston. I _know_ it."

"No, Hammer. You had only Arakaki's word for that – and he is dead. Our memories have a way of being altered the farther away from an event we travel."

Shizuka stared at him for a long while before looking away, her mind not altered an iota.

"I know what I know."

"As you wish." He paused, reached for her hand again, joined her at the window. "I have always been your friend, Akilah."

"I know that, too." She squeezed his hand, held it lightly.

Black gazed out at the Veil with her. After a few quiet moments, he intoned softly:

* * *

"_We are N7, Elite of Elite_

_Our lives are short,_

_But our triumphs are sweet."_

* * *

Shizuka looked at him from the corner of her eye.

"Were they ever?"

He shrugged.

"'_An N7 knows.'_" He quoted. "'_An N7 knows the point is not to annihilate an enemy, but to defeat him. The point to defeating an enemy is not in overwhelming him with force, but with thought – the surest way to victory is to force the enemy to defeat himself.'"_

"Anderson was always good for a punchy quote."

"Truth."

"I'll keep it in mind." She looked up at him, sighed softly. She let his hand go after another short squeeze.

"Flynn may have changed since, Akilah, as have we all." Black turned from the window. "The benefit of doubt costs you nothing."

"You're wrong this time, Duke. Benefit of doubt has already cost me too much."

She turned, stopped him as he reached the door.

"Trusting Flynn in _any_ capacity is a mistake. If I even _think_ he's set to betray us, _I'll kill him_ – and _no one_ will stop me."

Black simply nodded and left her there. Shizuka, he knew, would be in for a few rather disheartening disclosures were she ever inclined to listen, but it wasn't for him to be the one to make them.

_It is unfortunate,_ he thought, making his way to the flight deck to check on the _Virago_, _how often truth and our perception of it are so often at odds._


	30. Not Effen Likely, Jack

**THE CITADEL**

**LOCALE UNKNOWN**

**DATE UNKNOWN  
**

* * *

_"I could tell I was at the gateway of a region half-bewitched through the piling-up of unbroken time-accumulations; a region where old, strange things have had a chance to grow and linger because they have never been stirred up."_**  
**

* * *

**JACK WAS HAVING A VERY NICE DREAM.**

Usually, all she'd had were nightmares, and if they weren't nightmares, they were either empty, pointless mind-rambles that went nowhere, or distorted freakshows, remnants of a brain once soaked in too many chemicals and induced terrors. She'd one time had a dream that felt like it had lasted for _hours_, of her cleaning a shotgun over and over and over, an obsessive thing that affected her for so long that she switched to assault rifles for almost a year as her primary weapon. When the dream switched to those, she went back to shotguns.

She'd preferred sleep _without_ dreams, a short black gap in her life where nothing happened, and rest the only thing to be gained.

Then Shepard had to come along and _ruin_ it.

She had some sweet dreams after though, was liking them better now – like this current one, and even if some dim part of her mind still found them strange, it didn't dampen her enthusiasm for them. He had this thing he did; well – it was a combination of smaller things combined into one thing that he did and _damn_ it was _nice_ and she resented he didn't have hair for her to tangle her fingers in and _pull…_

_Toe-curling_ nice, that's what it was.

_This _dream could run as long as it liked.

Like all dreams however, it refused stay where she wanted it, drifting away into other things, slid images and events by her as if they were something her brain thought she should study, snippets of the past she hadn't thought on in a while…

Miranda? _Come on_, not _Miranda_. She did _not_ want to dream about other women. Especially not that silly bitch - always parading past Shepard in those stupid catsuits, her intent unmistakable – because, c'mon, why _else_ did she spray-paint the damn things on - _combat_? Yeah, _right_ … followed by the squeaky buckethead, _and_ that slutty yeoman of his, not to mention the damned _Shadow Broker, _and every other female in the cosmos throwing themselves at him. Big man. Big damn hero. _Whoopee-fuck'n-doo._

The odds had been, had she been interested, pretty damn heavy against her. Not that early on Jack herself had any intentions, she was there entirely for her own reasons. At first.

Even after being on the _Normandy _for a while, watching it all from her shadows and silences, she'd been pretty sure big hero asshole would never look at her twice, or even once - and she didn't care that he didn't. Why the hell would she?

His reputation didn't impress _her._ Reputations were bought and sold every day. All it took was a slug or two in the head.

People, though, every once-in-a-while? They could surprise you.

He kept taking her on missions, saying, "_I need a biotic on this one,"_ and leave Miranda to stew on the ship. Cheerleader would insist she was as able as Jack any day and Shepard would just give her a look of "_you think so_?" and Jack would feel like liking him just a _little_ bit more.

He'd ignore the Buckethead's blatant hero worship (_she kinda doubted he even noticed it to start with, really_) and, it turned out, had only ever been friends with Blue – hell, she had made it possible for Shepard to have stopped Saren and Sovereign, and literally to have been here, alive, now - at all. Of all the shit Cerberus had ever done, bringing Shepard back was the _only_ thing for which they could ever be lauded.

As far as T'Soni was concerned, Jack would always be quietly grateful to her. She owed her. They all did.

Besides, Shepard might have been a big knightly hero to the Galaxy at large, (_those stupid ads even showed him in medieval-looking armor at one point_!) but watching him buzzsaw his way across a battlefield, she could easily see from whence the "Butcher" title had come. Terminus pirates called him the "Human Wrecking Machine", for a _very _damn good reason.

She knew he didn't buy any of the bullshit they said about him. He was the Ice King in battle, though. Originally she had thought that was _all_ he was – she'd heard the stories from the pirates, mercs, all over. They had all kinds of names for him, but the one that kept cropping up – 'machine'. He was this kind of machine, that kind of machine, but always… _machine._

For a brief time back then, she believed it.

In the middle of some fiery shitstorm, his cold voice would come over her comm and she'd shiver despite herself, and it took her a while to really _get it_, to reconcile it with the man who would sit in the dark with her after missions, comms off, neither saying anything, just enjoying the dark and silence – and she knew, he actually needed it more than she did.

It was the first thing she'd ever shared with him, she realized. Even with _his_ reputation, she'd given him her shadows to hide in. A _man_ would come down and sit in the shadows with her. Not a machine.

A man.

Unlike many, a man she had begun to _respect._

The Machine fought the battles. The Machine had been the Butcher and the Spectre and the Relay Destroyer and the Reaper Exterminator. In battle, the Machine commanded and you _listened_, because when the Machine Spoke, it gave you only two choices.

Obey. Die. That was it.

The Voice of the Machine came when she – hell, any of them - was tired or afraid or about to give up and force her – and them - to focus.

She'd obey. Scramble behind him as he'd dodge nimbly through a room or some open space planetside, or through cramped corridors, some station or starship, with fire coming from everywhere and his face and voice were stone, calm and _in charge_. How else did he get a veteran badass like Massani or a damn hyper-willful krogan like Grunt to fall in line so damn quick? Never mind that picky turian or the frozen-assed Justicar.

He barked, they followed, and pirates, mercs, Collectors and anyone else stupid enough to get in the way got punch-fucked straight into oblivion.

It was, she realized later, precisely _why_ the Machine existed. It kept them – and him - alive.

It allowed the _man_ – the man inside him – to give them and himself – _her_ – reasons to keep on living.

A fight she could do, coordinated combat scenarios with squad strategies and tactics were something else. Teamwork? Not her thing. But there she was, falling in line, going where, when and how he said. _Her. _Depending on someone having your back? Also not her thing, but man… it was an odd feeling to have someone behind you and _know_ they would back you up.

_Everything we went through,_ she'd heard a voice from the past say, _must have been worth something! _

He'd been just looking for _a reason_. Something that matched the horrors they all went through to give her the power she had today, the life she had today. She'd never articulated it, but she _owed_ Aresh. Owed them all, all the dead at Teltin. She didn't believe in any of that mystical bullshit, but somehow she hoped that they knew she'd done it for them, too. In her own fucked-up way, maybe she had been looking to balance the scales.

So she'd followed Shepard straight into hell, and she could say that she was _proud_ to say she'd done it. She never would have thought so, but she _was_ proud of her role in wasting the Collectors. She was proud of her students and proud of her role in smashing the Reapers and proud that _she_ had saved Shepard at the last.

But, yeah - it was _that_ voice of Shepard's that got her first, she admitted. There was no arguing with _that_ voice. That voice had spelled doom for countless enemies, had rung the death knell of the Reapers.

Then he'd come down into her cubby and use the _other _voice, the smooth voice that came calmly from her shadows, that never judged her, that _knew_ what shit was like, knew what it was like to feel so utterly alone inside yourself.

She'd lived her whole life with the notion that _her_ suffering had been unique, but now she knew that, despite how one came by their wounds physical or otherwise, _suffering_ was the _same_ for everyone. Pain _hurt_ the same, loneliness cut _as_ deep no matter if you were human, blue or had a big hump on your back. Cerberus had tried to strip her of the ability to empathize, to make _her _a machine, but they'd ultimately failed. They'd taught her to hate, to enjoy rage, to lust after pain. They could scramble her feelings but they couldn't excise her humanity. They could only bury it. Those few times in her life when she'd almost been content… it'd be ruined by her busted, scrambled psyche.

Her outlaw colony, his Mindoir…

She'd driven him off, her doubts and desires equal measures, both smothering her in his presence, and had not seen him for two days, hated every moment, then had come to her own 'revelation'.

Shepard – that bastard – had _understood_. How could he not?

Then…

…_that_ night before assaulting the Collectors and her whole life had felt compressed into her throat as she stepped into that elevator with all her baggage for the shortest-longest elevator ride of her life. She had been ready and willing - sort of; scared shitless that it could go wrong and she had read him wrong and was just making another massive mistake – as if Cheerleader and every other female on the ship would suddenly spring from a closet or something and laugh at her.

But she wanted it so badly, needed it so insistently, had started to _believe_.

Then the Loathing climbed into that elevator with her, started with its litanies: who the fuck was _she_ to offer herself as if she were some prize worth the having? For all her bravado, she knew shit about anything even remotely resembling 'normal' or 'sane' or all that stuff other people seemed to be so easy with, so well-versed in.

_He _was the hero.

No – Shepard was _The Hero_.

_You_, Jack? You were called _Zero _for a good reason. You're _nothing_ – hollow little abused girl, knowing nothing but how to wallow in hate and rage and wearing your misery like a crown and robes, parading it like it mattered to anyone but you.

On and on, that never-ending refrain of the Loathing.

_Then_ she was standing in front of That Door.

She didn't hesitate. If she did, she'd turn, run, and never stop.

Just a few steps… she'd stopped, saw him standing there, broad back to the door, reading some report and she just screwing up her resolve and _kept walking…_

…and then he turned to her, with that damn stone face.

"_Didn't expect you,"_ he'd said. No, why would he? She _must_ have read it all wrong.

She 'gestalted' the room suddenly, seeing every detail, saw the crushed helmet on his desk and the row of medals and citations and awards from twenty different worlds and species… whatever had powered her feet to bring her here, that stupid manufactured resolve _vanished _as fear scrabbled up her spine and started yelling obscenities into her brain. She couldn't tell him anything, offer him anything, she felt inadequate, small, mean and unworthy.

What was worse, she'd wondered – to live in a dark hole all your life and never see the light, or get a tiny glimpse and never be allowed to see it again? She couldn't stand that. Better to have nothing, than just a maddening taste. Even if you lived in a cell forever, it was a least a place you understood, not a glimpse of freedom you couldn't.

She felt as if she were beginning to dissolve, to come apart from the inside out.

She then mumbled something stupid about "thinking" and "needing" - so sure he'd laugh and tell her to get out.

"_You're the one who ran away,"_ he said, but it wasn't a recrimination, wasn't an accusation. Just a plain statement of fact. She had, she wanted to now. Was it a …_challenge_?

"_I know. Maybe it wasn't right. But I'm trying." _She had been too, hadn't she? She really _had _been trying – _her. _She was there, _she_ went to him, _she_ offered.

"_No more questions,"_ was all he said.

Something slapped Jack's brain at that. Her fear staggered back, stunned. The Loathing was smacked stupid.

There was no word for it. To this day she didn't know what it was, why that had been the _best_ thing he could have said to her. The _right_ thing.

She felt the floor under her feet for the first time. Her heart slowed down, it just beat _stronger_ rather than faster. She smelled that clean metal and leather masculine smell that was uniquely Shepard, breathed it in like a draught of pure oxygen.

She'd just taken the biggest risk of her life. She'd let him _see_ her.

"_No more questions,"_ he'd said.

She hadn't heard that though. Had she been wrong? Because it sounded like…

"_Welcome _home_."_

She cried and clung and he let her. She didn't know what else to do, she hung onto him as if letting him go would dissolve the universe back into that liquid dark that had been slowly drowning her.

He took her to his bed, finally, and she had tried to kiss him, do _anything_ to tell him how she felt and all he did was pull her into his arms and hold her _closer_, just kiss her softly and offer her just the chance to _be there_, as herself.

The fuckin' _Butcher of Torfan_. If they could have seen him then…

No sex. Nothing like that. Just his iron arms and her liquid fear. That hot-hurty feeling began then, but she didn't understand it. He could have taken advantage and he didn't. He would never understand how much that meant to her. She hadn't then, either, but now she did.

She would have let him and he wouldn't.

It hadn't been time then. Jack didn't know enough yet, and neither did he.

"_You don't owe me anything,"_ was all that he'd said there in the dark, on his bed in his arms.

After the Collector mission, however… well, different story then. She knew better then. Not enough, but _enough_, y'know? Enough to displace the fear, and the stupid, stuttering, hobbling doubts. All that they'd said, all that he'd told her, and then that _dance*.__  
_

To the day she died, Jack would always think of _that_ song and _that_ dance as the herald of the day of her really-real birth, the day she crossed the terminus from shadow to light, from 'Jennifer' and 'Zero' to just plain Jack - as scarred and odd as it might appear to outsiders – she had become someone who loved and was loved.

_Holy_ fuck _yeah_.

Their first time?

No hurry, no rush, just _intensity_ – hands and lips and skin and exploration and tastes. It had …weight, was as real as daylight, all mixed with lust and need, depth of feeling she doubted either had ever really let out before. He held her and touched her as if she were something so …utterly _new_ to him, the texture of her skin seemed to fascinate him to no end, her scars treated as reverently as the rest of her – and Jack discovered what it was like to be an object of _actual desire_ by someone with no intent other than to give _her_ as much pleasure as possible.

At first, she almost ruined it, stopping him often, brainlessly (_to her mind_) scared about being touched here and there, as if he'd find her scars or her ink repulsive or maybe he'd believed too much of her so-called 'past'; the idea that he _just wanted_ _her_, scars and all – well, it was an alien one to her, in the back of her mind she just couldn't _believe_ it.

With _Shepard_, though… that first time, and the times after - to be completely _engaged_ in lovemaking, for him to be an active and caring participant, never pushing her. When her fear would get the best of her and she'd say stop – he _stopped_.

No recriminations, no demands, he didn't sulk or insist or needle her. He would wait.

"_Here I am_," he'd tell her softly. "_Here I remain_."

In those times, though, when she winched up enough courage to trust him completely, to just _go_ for it, to be _his girl_, as corny as _that_ sounded - she'd just shut her eyes and _feel_, and she remembered her only cogent thought – like some sharp-edged revelation - had been, strangely: _this is how humans feel being really human_.

Sex had always had no meaning to her. It was an empty mechanical motion, like eating, a tool or a weapon. Sometimes, every once in long while it felt passingly good.

Shepard, though, he acted like sex was a _gift_ she was giving him, a _privilege_ that was hers to give or keep; he had no 'rights' to her, to 'it', no claim or deed of ownership, treated her body and herself like it was something he had to _earn_ with caring, respect and trust.

_Did that bastard have any idea what that kind of thing did to a girl's psyche? _

Happy? Jack didn't know from happy. If this was it though, she could learn to live with it quite comfortably.

_S_ome angry insect started buzzing in her head, and Jack really wished it'd piss off and leave her alone, because it was making the happy go away.

When the pain started to kick in, she realized that the dreaming – pleasant as it was – needed to stop and cruddy reality had to be given its due.

When the agony rolled over her, she twisted and yelled, and thought for a split-second she was back in France frantically digging for Shepard, her amps exploding inside her. One had gone up so hard it had broken five of her ribs, punctured and collapsed one of her lungs. It hadn't stopped her, and the one that shattered her shoulder and collarbone didn't either. The pain then had blinded her, but it hadn't stopped her, even though it had been some of the worst pain she'd ever felt.

This was _worse_. It felt like she was about to be torn in half and she screamed in anger and fought it.

When it stopped abruptly, Jack felt herself on a soft surface and her eyes snapped open. She was gasping for air, saw the dingy confines of …wherever she was. It smelled like the ass-end of a bad neighbourhood. Her eyesight was fuzzy, her tongue felt thick, and her mouth felt like she had been gargling acidic sand.

"_Jack – I'm back."_ She heard from somewhere to her left. The voice sounded familiar. She heard heavy boots stomp-wandering the room. She shook her head, trying to get that sloshing sick feeling to drain out of her skull. Someone very tiny was inside there, furiously kicking the backs of her eyeballs, tossing grenades down her throat.

"You seen my _Brawler_? The one I got off that Suns prick?" Stomp, stomp. "Nevermind – found it."

No. That voice was _impossible_.

"Jack, fuck's sake – get your bony ass _up_ – we got shit to _do_."

_No goddamned way!_

A strong hand grabbed her, shook her. She was still having a hard time focusing her eyes on anything in particular.

"_Jesus buggering Christ_! You high? I _told _you not to slide any shit before a score!" That hand twisted her head. "Where'd you slap it this time? Don't see nothing on your jugular…"

She managed enough strength to bat the hand away, growl something inarticulate.

"C'mon! We don't have time for this crap!"

Another strong hand joined the first, grabbed both her wrists, hoisted her to her feet, spun her to face the face that had spoken, held her up as she swayed. Her eyes clearing enough for a decent look, she saw a young face that had a broken nose, a scar on his lower lip, a strong jaw, one eye brown, one blue – curly black hair tied up with that stupid black skull-and-rose bandanna he wore too much, a week's worth of stubble and a crooked smile that always made him look like he was about to either tell you a joke or shoot you in your face.

Jack must have looked really surprised, because he laughed, bent close to look in her eyes.

"You still in there, or what?"

She nodded with a wobble, shocked, feeling her strength coming back in small increments.

"You _sure_?"

She shook her head, not sure at all. This, him, all of it. Impossible.

"_Right._ Let's try…." He pulled her to him to drop a hard kiss on her lips, and so bewildered, she let him. He pulled back, looked into her eyes, said gently,

"Hey, Scrawny – Lone Dog's home. Come on back."

She managed only one word:

"_Murtock!?"  
_

* * *

_*_see_Where We Are, There We Are_


	31. In Like Flynn - Or Not

**NEW CHAMBERLAIN COLONY**

**SECOND LARGEST MOON OF BORR**

**EXODUS CLUSTER**

**OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

_"The only saving grace of the present is that it's too damned stupid to question the past very closely."_

* * *

**THE _PHOENIX_ EASED INTO THE DOCKING RING FACILITY** above New Chamberlain with nary a bump. New Chamberlain hadn't been hit by the Reapers much past a Destroyer or two doing a flyby. It also wasn't a rich colony, so a lot of the debris created by those Destroyers still littered the area.

Miranda Lawson sighed an inaudible sigh of mild consternation and finished snapping her armor into place. This could go one of two ways: bad, or very bad.

"You're not doing this alone, Chief." Riley told her. He was fine-tuning his drone as she walked into Ops. He also already had his armor on. It would take longer to argue about it than just give in, and she just didn't have the energy to argue.

She needed _that_ for Flynn.

"Fine. You can come." She powered the armor, adjusted a piece or two, was satisfied. "I'll do the talking."

Shizuka looked up from where she was studying their situational reports. She was in a hardsuit, not armor, but still effective defence. Black stood behind her, reading over her shoulder.

"Don't trust him," she frowned. "He'll say anything."

Miranda looked as if she was about to say something but then changed her mind.

"We'll see."

Trust was something Miranda had never been very good at, and with _Flynn_…?

_It was going to be a long afternoon.  
_

* * *

**RYAN GRADY ELLSION FLYNN** - the 'Last Living Irishman' as he sometimes called himself, watched the turian across from him slowly look down at his cards. Smoke drifted around them, the orange light dim here in the '_Miser's Mire'_ pub, faces human and otherwise watching from the grey shadows surrounding the table. Only a few people remained, most stumbling off on various errands or looking for places to pass out. The game had been going some time and had begun much larger, losing players as pots grew and finances dwindled.

Now it was just down to two – the luckiest ones, or the unluckiest, depending on where one sat.

"Starin' at them won't make your losin' any less humilatin', Thohrin." Flynn told him, sounding bored.

"Be quiet!" The turian rasped at him. "I'm concentrating." The human across from him had been needling him the entire time they'd played, and he knew it was to unsettle him. He had a youngish face, cool green eyes, faintly orange hair, a square chin, a deep scar that began under his right ear, slashed across his jaw, ended on his throat, stubbled over with a few days growth of beard. Casually dressed, but well-armed, he looked relaxed, which made Thohrin even more irritated. He was also solidly packed with heavy muscle, dense but lean. He had a bold tattoo of a black spinal column around his right wrist.

"It's salarian Five-Draw. It's the simplest goddamn card game in the soddin' galaxy, even for a bleedin' turian. Bet or _fold_, ya barefaced jackass." His voice drawled with an accent that sounded like a blend of Scottish and Irish dialects. Thohrin had a difficult time understanding humans under the best of circumstances, but he swore this one's accent was this thick simply to mess with him.

The turian grunted, clattered his side-mandibles, pushed his last pile of chits across the table, then with a disgusted noise slapped his cards down.

"Three kin – all lineages." His beady eyes glittered in the orange light. "Two close ties. The only way you can beat that is if you have…"

"Full clan lineage, _all_ charted." Flynn slapped his cards down with a flourish, to the onlookers' murmurs. "And you've ben beat."

Thohrin started, his mandibles quivering with anger.

"You _cheated_." The turian ground at him. "The odds are _thousand-to-one_ against getting that when I have _three_ kin!"

"I ha'e a way of beatin' the odds. What c'n I say?" He reached for the pile of chits in the centre of the table. He was stopped by the _Executioner _pistol suddenly pointed at his eyes.

"How about '_goodbye'_?" The turian hissed – then gulped, when he felt the cold ring of a gun barrel at the back of his head, and heard a cold voice behind him. Flynn hadn't even blinked.

"Sorry – I need his cheating hide. Hopefully not more than you need your head."

The turian's mandibles shuddered, and Flynn grinned a sardonic grin, scooped up the chits and leaned back in his chair. If he looked surprised by the identity of his rescuer, he failed to show it.

"How _dra_matic." He said dryly, looking over at the turian. "Ye still here, Thohrin?"

The cold ring went away at the back of his head.

"Uh – I was just leaving." Thohrin rose glaring hate at Flynn with a wary pique toward _Miranda Lawson_ then beat a hasty retreat. Behind her, a man with an active omnitool tracked the turian leaving.

"_Mac soith__._ He'll be back." He spat. "_Pláigh ar a theach!" _

Miranda smiled to herself. He was probably the last man alive who still spoke Gaelic on a regular basis – well, Flynn only did it when he got emotional. Her cerebral translator implant didn't translate it because the language was so infrequently used nowadays. The only thing she recognized was the first thing he'd said: 'son of a bitch" – or something like that. Flynn gave her a once-over as she stepped up to the table.

Miranda's pistol looked new, a variant on the M-358 _Talon_. She looked official – sort of. She was in shiny new armor too, black, with gold piping. A silver phoenix was emblazoned on the shoulder piece. The fella with the omnitool wore something similar. Flynn even thought her new haircut suited her.

Damn his eyes, she was as beautiful as ever. He couldn't _wait_ to see what she wanted this time.

"Weren't you being a bit obvious, Flynn?"

He shrugged, dragged the chair Thohrin had recently vacated with a foot, put both feet up, forcing Miranda to fetch her own.

_Right. _ He and she had not exactly parted under the best of circumstances, but it _was_ a bit long to hold a grudge. Well – for _her, _anyway.

Flynn was counting his winning chits, and his whole demeanour said he didn't care if she were there or not. Sixty-three thousand five all told. Not bad.

"You walk in tarted-out in full armor in this shithole, an' ask me tha' question?"

"Not exactly the Azure Imperial." Miranda just looked at him, vaguely resenting the 'tarted-out' crack.

Flynn chuckled, but he wasn't amused. Miranda knew this wasn't going to be pretty.

"Who's yer friend?"

"Angus Riley. My Engineer."

Flynn laughed out loud at the name.

Riley frowned at him.

"Four generations in Dublin." He said. "I'm as Irish as anybody there."

"_An bhfuil tú anois_?" Flynn's voice wasn't remotely friendly. "_Mine bhí ann ar feadh _caoga."

"Look, just because I don't speak whatever it is you're speaking, doesn't mean I…"

"Riley, be quiet." Miranda admonished him. She didn't need some silly game of one-upmanship or Riley making a fool of himself. Riley clamped his mouth shut and backed off.

"Well, he's housebroken, at least." Flynn sniffed in Standard, which oddly enough _removed_ his accent. He scratched his nose with his thumb, switched to English, which brought his brogue back. She had no idea why the translator did that. Personally, she preferred the brogue. "How do ye pay this one?"

The tone was sardonic, almost accusatory.

"With a _salary_." She replied, with a trace of venom she couldn't help. She heard the implication in his voice.

"You've got some nerve – " Riley started, but Flynn fixed him with a cold gaze that stopped him.

"Could'a swore ye were told to shut up. So be a gud dog an' _shut the fook up_." He glanced back at Miranda. "Ye might wan'ta change his kibble."

"Riley - go back to the ship."

"I'll be quiet. But he, what he said –" She turned a cold glare on him, appreciating his loyalty, but not his timing.

"When it's _your_ business, I'll let you know."

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am." Riley stepped back, made a show of working on his omnitool.

"Well, now, as boyfrien's go, at least you got _this_ one broke and broke in." The sparking gaze came back to round on him.

"He's not a boyfriend, he's an employee."

"Ah, too bad. So you don't treat 'im like a person after all then?" Miranda's eyes narrowed and real anger bubbled up.

"If you have something stuck in your craw, say it already."

Flynn feigned all innocence.

"Me? What would I have to say?"

"You just never let things go!"

Again that annoying innocent look.

"Go? What do _I_ have to let go?"

"The _past_. I made a bloody damned _mistake_ in ever going along with…!" Miranda clamped her mouth shut as his eyes turned to ice. _Dammit!_ Instantly, she regretted saying it, for it came out far harsher than she'd intended. His eyes narrowed and anger flashed through them. Groups of heavily armed men questioned their vocations when he did that.

Without even trying he managed to make her angry. She fought it down. He sat back in his chair, and if he'd been genuinely happy to see her at any point so far, it was long gone.

"The past… _I_ didn't bring up any past." His voice was low and slow. "Why would I ever wan'ta do that?"

Miranda looked down at his brawny arms, coiled with muscle, strong and fine, cursed herself. _She_ did _not_ act this way! His hands twirled a credit chit between long fingers. She had a flash of them tangled in her hair… _no, no, no_. Do not go _there_.

She could not allow him to make her simply _react_. That's how he got you, that's how he got _everybody_.

Yet… she remembered those hands. Back in her early days of Cerberus. She'd met him on a mission, they had been on opposing sides, forced to work together, she promising recompense for his help. It had been …odd. She had come close to shooting him once or twice, his insolent confidence and her supreme arrogance clashing constantly, both certain they were in the right, pretty much constantly. It had not been animosity masking warm feelings, like those insipid vids – it had been _real_ animosity on her part. She had not liked him at all, and he seemed to go out of his way to do everything in his power to make sure she didn't.

Flynn was a classic rogue and scoundrel, a troublemaker and felt completely _wrong_ for her in almost every way.

She'd only wished that she'd had the sense to run before they…

Riley suddenly shouted.

Thohrin chose then to return, and he didn't return alone. He burst back into the pub with a yell, followed by five others, two more turians, a batarian, a vorcha and a rather hard-looking asari.

Flynn didn't even wait for them to fully enter the pub or to hear the turian's bravado. He was out of his chair and into the group before Thohrin had even finished his first word, as if he'd been expecting it – which he had - a large fist hitting the disgruntled turian squarely in the mouth, his right mandible cracking audibly from the blow. It was followed by another solid fist streaking in under the first, to impact his jaw and send him flailing back into his comrades, unconscious before he hit the floor.

The asari managed to yell, hit him with a stasis bubble, with the obvious intent of holding him there as she brought a shotgun to bear. She thought she had him until she saw the grin spread across his face.

"Feckin' asari always think ye got the world by the bawls," he told her, seeing Miranda rising from her chair from the corner of his eye. He hadn't given her all that much time to react. She instantly engaged the others, sending them diving for cover. Riley's drone was engaging another on the other side of the bar.

"Ye see that?" He glanced down at his belt-buckle, which had a pulsing red light on it. "NFIG – _null-force_ innerference generator." Her eyes widened.

He took a step toward the now-astonished asari, coming _through_ her stasis bubble, took another step, lashed out. His fist hammered into her jaw just under her ear with the speed of a Kodiak and broke her neck, dropping her like a puppet with cut strings.

"Can't stasis yer man when he's got a null field on. Nuthin' fer it ta grab," He told her corpse.

Miranda shouted for him to duck, as the batarian cohort of the yet-unconscious Thohrin drew a bead on his back.

Flynn didn't duck – he simply pivoted, grabbed a nearby chair and hurled it squarely at the batarian, sending the shot into the air and the batarian across the room with a crushed skull to crash through an empty table. Miranda Slammed one of the remaining turians, and shot the last in the leg. Flynn stomped his throat, put him down and gone. Riley's drone blasted the other and killed its operator, hiding outside.

The vorcha charged Flynn, leaping over the bar, but he really didn't stand a chance. Flynn caught him in mid-flight by the throat and helped him head-first into the floor with a sickening crack of neck-bones. Flynn cursed and spat, looking for more.

Miranda stood from behind the table she'd overturned for cover, tracked across the room for further threats, the blue of her biotics flaring before calming and holstering her pistol. She watched Flynn dust his hands, survey the bar more calmly, surprised at his ferocity – and lethality.

He came back to turn the table over and find himself an undamaged chair. She told Riley to check the bodies for intel. What patrons were left were even more intent on their own business and the staff slowly emerged from hiding.

Once again, Flynn let Miranda find her own chair, and did not thank her for the heads-up in the fight. She let it slide, found a chair and pulled it up to the table. Flynn ordered another drink, twisted his neck until it snapped. Miranda got a glimpse of the small N7 tattoo behind his right ear as he did it. Sometimes it was easy to forget the man before her was not only a member of an elite group of warriors, but in the elite of that elite.

"Nuthin' like a good scrap to work out the kinks." He cracked his knuckles, slammed his fist on the table and yelled for his drink to hurry up. "Guess yer dog weren't too clueless after all."

"He has his uses."

"No doubt." Again that faint accusatory tone. She ignored it.

"Did you need to kill them all?"

"Thohrin's still breathin'." He waved it away. "Tha' c'n change." He shrugged. She didn't remember him being quite _this_ ruthless. He'd been dangerous when she'd known him, certainly, but he'd never went past the expediently necessary.

Well, it _had_ been a long time.

Still, she found herself feeling a little disappointed that he had seemed to have lost something important - a spark in him that had seemed to have gone out.

"I see you're still carrying Brigid." She indicated the enormous cannon he had strapped to his back. It was a custom weapon he had made for him in the distant past, a mutant railgun apparently based on his own design. The thing could literally fire _anything_ that could be fit into the loading chamber. She could see how it could be useful – stuck somewhere without access to thermal clips or the old built-in cooldowns – well, Brigid never ran out of ammunition. You could dump a handful of gravel into the thing and it would fire it with enough force to blow a security mech to pieces. There was even a story once of Flynn killing a group of pirates with it by using a handful of _old metal currency._ She'd also wondered if he wasn't the size he was just so he could use the damn thing comfortably. He had other weapons, but Brigid was his easy favourite. She'd been mildly impressed he'd decided not to use it.

He got comfortable, as if the fight had never happened.

"Aye."

She pointed to the deep scar on his jaw.

"She backfire on you?" He fired her a contemptuous look.

"Hardly." He shrugged. "What do you care?"

"Can't a body be curious?" She tried a real smile, genuinely curious. "How did it happen?"

"Got hit in the face." His tone coldly mocking.

_Right. _That actually stung. A little.

"It's an improvement." Miranda rejoined blandly. His mood, always a tad mercurial, seemed to change again when his drink arrived.

"So - what _does_ bring the Illusive Man's favorite icy-arsed Aussie all the way down here to soil her perfection with such low-rent scum as meself?"

Miranda frowned.

"The Illusive Man is dead."

"Who cares? So's Cerberus, or soon will be." He took a drink of whatever it was in his glass. She assumed whiskey of some kind. "I've killed enough of the feckers meself." He '_pffft'd_'. "Not a single one worth savin'."

She let it pass. His digs weren't going to bug her if she could help it.

"I also know the Alliance has a 'kill-on-sight' order on their operatives. Something about indoc'rination and the like."

"That's true."

"Even you had a bounty on ye afore the War. It were a pretty sum too."

"From the Alliance?"

"Yer Da." Not a surprise. "Another from Cerberus. _Substantial_ creds."

"Surprised you didn't try for it."

A small smile.

"Who says I didn't?"

She sent him a skeptical look, sat back, crossed her arms, said in a tone of sarcastic disbelief,

"Well - how close _did_ you get then?"

"Stood there in D24 an' watched you whinge to Shepard. The first time. Missed you on the Presidium, tho'."

She blinked.

"You're full of it. _You _stand out."

"Had a devil of a time findin' a C-Sec uniform in my size." He took a drink. "D24, you wearing that painted-on white suit – very _subtle_, by the way – on the hunt for yer sister. Oriana, roight?"

She blinked again._ He'd been there_.

"I follered ye to Sanctuary, but I got diverted - had other problems."

"What problems?" Followed her to _Sanctuary? How damn long had he been after her?!_

"Cerberus rescinded it, anyway." He told her, ignoring her question. "Guess he had other plans fer ye."

"There was still my father." Her voice was contemptuous.

"He wanted ye _dead_. Saw no need o'dat." A shake of his head in mock pity. "Shame. Yer worth nuthin' now."

"The illusive Man still would have paid you." Ignoring the latest jab, she yet had a hard time believing him, but he knew details he couldn't have otherwise.

"No for his favourite." She didn't like how he used that word, nor the implication behind it. Did he think…?

"My 'icy-arse' isn't remotely Cerberus anymore, and hasn't been for some time, and I was never his bloody 'favourite'."

"Sure ye weren't," He rolled his eyes.

He _was_ insinuating…! The _bastard! _No. She was a bigger person than that. He would _not _get under her skin again.

"Believe what you want. I have larger responsibilities now."

He nodded at her phoenix.

"Aye. I've heard that too. The bleedin' sweet life - CEO of a mountain of cash and a small biotic army – and fookin' _asari_ in the mix."

"Being pro-Humanity didn't – and doesn't - mean anti-everyone else."

"Noice to be flexible." She glared at him, waved off a tentative seedy-looking waiter.

"You see a lot."

"It's a self-preservation thing." Flynn sniffed. "You taught me well enow not ta trust anyone."

She opened her mouth, closed it.

"Besides, yer bloody _famous_, aren't yeh, and I ha' a pretty good memory."

"Don't remind me. That's also the past."

"Hardly. Workin' with _Commander-Fookin'-Legend_ hisself is _great_ for one's résumé. Look at the fame 'n' fortune it brought me!" A chuckle, ironic. "I saw you on the vids, me lass, among other places. '_The Great Reviver, Shepard's Angel of Resurrection'_. _Feckin' hell_." His voice was one of total incredulity. "The meedja c'n make an angel owt of a whore or a whore outta an angel."

Miranda shot him the dirtiest of dirty looks, opened her mouth to fire back. He put his hands up defensively.

"Now, now – just a metafer. Nuthin' personal." It had been the first sincere thing he'd said, so she calmed, realizing she'd have to _continually_ remind herself not to let him under her skin.

_The one rule, Miranda, remember: do not allow him to make you simply react. That's how he got you, that's how he got everybody._

He was chuckling, enjoying the memory and her discomfort.

"Still waitin' for the new religion to come owt. It's a classic, tho'. He's the prime mover in endin' the greatest ongoing threat in galac'ic history, and once he's up and runnin', they jam five hunnerd cameras in his face and what's he say? "_I should go_'!" he laughed out loud then.

"Flynn – he said more than that!"

"Sure, sure, but that's what it boiled down'ta. Fecking _classic_." He coughed, took a drink. "He was allays like that, though, even on Torfan. Fer a man so hard, he liked his bloody speeches."

Miranda nodded. Flynn had the distinction of being one of the few survivors of that bloodbath.

"Why were you in prison?" She asked, the question coming from left field. She used an eyebrow on him. "You spent six months in cryogenic solitary."

"Bit of a brawl." He didn't inquire as to where she'd achieved that information on him. Didn't care. His battles were hardly secret.

"Six in cryo-sol for a 'bit of a brawl'?"

"On Illium. I tossed a few boys through a window or two." He glanced past her at Riley, sneered faintly. "Or don' ye' have it already writ down?"

"I don't have particulars, just summaries."

"Well, like ye tol' yer man there – when it's yer business, I'll let ye know."

"I see being civilized isn't going to work," she told him, smile vanishing.

"Ye don' really care, so why should I waste me breath?" He bellowed for another drink. "We've had our little pleasantries. What the fook _do_ ye want, anyways?"

She eyed him dubiously, pondered it, changed her mind five times and changed it back five times. Finally, she replied,

"I need your help."

As soon as she said it, she knew she shouldn't have – Flynn threw his head back and laughed long and loud.

Miranda crossed her arms and waited it out. When he finished, she give him a stern look and asked,

"Got any more?"

His drink arrived, and he took a generous swig, told the guy to fetch the bottle. He waved at her breezily.

"_Ach, nae_ – _do _go on, yer Perfection. The last time you asked for my help ended _so_ bloody well. Well – fer _you_. I can'nae _wait_ to see what this is all about!"

"Are you accusing me of something?"

"Me? Accusing you? Of what?"

Miranda was suddenly conscious of Riley behind her – and she knew, despite appearances, he was all ears. The last things she needed was her crew making too many assumptions. She swallowed her indignant reply, took a breath to centre herself and tried again. Flynn's requested bottle arrived.

"Damn you. I didn't come here to reminisce," and she was almost relieved to see the slight nod he gave her. She could give as good as she got. She tried to get back on track. "Shepard is _why_ I'm here."

"Don' look a'me! I haen't seen the prick!"

"Will you just _listen_?" She looked annoyed again, he just smiled an insolent smile at her, which just annoyed her further. Another breath, deeper this time.

"Some background: after his release from the hospital, at his specific request, he was given a conditional discharge from his Spectre duties, to – as he put it, 'burn off accumulated vacation time'."

"So? I'd say the bastard earned some bloody time off."

Miranda shook her head.

"I don't disagree, but this is _important_, Flynn." Earnest.

"Roight." Flynn started flicking a chit into the air with his thumb, unconcerned.

Miranda told him about the missing salvage ships, the incidences with the turians, the quarians. He failed to see how any of this should cause him concern, decided to just go with it. Eventually Miranda would get to the point, he figured, and if she didn't, well, he didn't give a damn. He already knew his answer, no matter what she told him.

Still, curiosity was curiosity.

"So, so far I don' see anything what says _I_ need ta give a flyin' fook."

Miranda leaned over the table, said quietly:

"That salvage team I told you about? They showed up again at the 'Merrie Olde' colony on Westminster's Fifth, two weeks ago. Two days later, the colony went quiet." He frowned.

"Merrie Olde - quiet? Tha' does _nae_ happen."

"Exactly. It gets worse. Two days after that, a turian patrol found it _dead_."

"'Dead'? Whatcha mean – _dead_?"

Miranda held up a pad, read.

"'_Report 353a: All humans in this colony are dead. Unsettling. It appears all inhabitants committed suicide. We found one, in the port, screaming. She immediately took her own life with a shotgun blast to the head_.'"

"The _hell_?" He ran a hand through his hair. "A'right, now tha' _is_ damned peculiar." He scratched the scar on his chin. "Do they know wha' did it – disease? A toxin? Reapers?"

Miranda frowned at him.

"We don't know. That's part of the mystery, to which I'll fill you in later, depending. We _are_ looking, it's part of why I came to find you. Back to Shepard, for the moment. The ship he took for his 'vacation' was a cruise liner called the _Emerald Dawn_."

"Uh, _and_? I'm sure he'll show up eventually. He didn't go alone, if'n I remember correc'ly."

Miranda frowned. Out of everyone… the Inky Nightmare… _no_, nevermind. Shepard could be infuriatingly inexplicable all he liked.

"No," she said, dry. "He was accompanied by Subject Zero and a krogan named Urdnot Grunt."

"Is _that_ who they were? Shepard an' Wreckin' Ball? She were a pretty little thing." He mused. "I'll be damn'd."

"'Wrecking Ball'?" Miranda inquired, vaguely surly.

Flynn chuckled.

"That's what the Terminus pirates called 'er. A hot little ball of biotic rage that just smashed anythin' in her way."

Lawson gave him a sour smile.

"She's some kind of _teacher_ at Grissom apparently." Her tone laid out everything she thought of that state of affairs.

"Is she now? Don't _tha'_ beat all. Now _tha'_ were a gurl you could _trust_. If she didna like ye, she'd just either tell ye, or smush ye into a very little ball o' great regrets."

"We're not here to talk about her." Annoyed. He smiled that damned insolent smile. "Just short of the Tasale Relay, the ship they were on went missing. A week later it showed up wrecked and empty two systems away, in orbit of Nepyma."

He sent her a bored look.

"Well, that solves yuir Shepard problem."

Miranda fished around in a pack on her waist, withdrew another pad, skimmed it across the table at him. It had footage on it. Flynn looked at it with a vague interest.

She indicated a particular file number, and Flynn tapped it, watched it.

"That was taken recently; someone – a _very_ powerful biotic - stormed through the Terminus pirate colony of Ramnageo and tore it to shreds."

The video was grainy security footage. 'Stormed' was an apt description. There was very little of Ramnageo left intact when the biotic finished.

Flynn frowned, replayed it again.

"Zero were on that ship with Shepard… no, this armor and attack modality's all wrong for tha' girl. I've seen her vids." Miranda blinked. She'd forgotten just how sharp he was. It was that damn brogue that threw you off. "Got her power, but a helluva bit more control…."

"Not long ago," Miranda added, "Someone in what appeared to be heavily-modified N7-branded heavy armor, using a weapon that _looked_ like an N7-class Valkyrie, but did not fire like one – I'll explain why later –destroyed five full pirate bands on The Shady. _With_ the woman you just saw. They apparently waited until an Alliance patrol answered some SOS' and then _gave_ the gun he used to the nearest soldier and told them to make more. The soldiers there were convinced it was Shepard. They didn't see his face, however."

"And?"

"The Valkyrie is of a design no one – and I mean _no one_ has ever seen before. It's not based on modern technology."

"Neither is Brigid."

"Not remotely the same."

"If you say so."

"This soldier and the biotic then called a small ship of an unrecognized design and boosted straight out of the atmosphere and was halfway across the Omega system and to the Relay before anyone could either track or stop them. Scans of their track showed _no_ eezo traces, _nothing_ pertaining to any kind of mass effect generation, nothing. The ship vanished and did not use the Relay. A traffic beacon just outside krogan space registered the same ship reappearing as if from nowhere. Salarian scientists who studied the scan of the area said something about 'spatial compression' but then refused to say anymore."

Flynn started to look bored again.

"If it _was_ Shepard, something _very _strange is going on."

Flynn picked up the pad, read, started to laugh sardonically about halfway through and didn't bother to finish it.

"So what aren't ye tellin' me?"

"That depends on your answer when I'm done. Keep reading."

"And ye come to me…" He seemed incredulous at that, read a bit longer, then looked up, pointed at the pad.

"Wot's this 'psyche check' shite?"

Miranda looked vaguely uncomfortable.

"It's derived from a standard check after they pulled him from the rubble in France. There'd been some …questions about his state of mind. If that soldier was Shepard, he's fallen back into some disturbing patterns. _Post-Torfan_ patterns."

Flynn shook his head in disbelief.

"Oh, fer fook's sake! Them's bloody _fairy tales_. Shepard's as hard as they come, but his bloody mind was fine! Whether folks like it or not - and I didn' - he _was_ unner _orders_ on Torfan. They didn't call him the 'Butcher' for nuthin', _but_ he didn' do it because he hated the feckin' squints or was sloggin' through some stupid psychosis. If he didn't crack from Mindoir - or Torfan - or everything that followed, he sure as hell won't after it's all said an' done!"

Flynn skidded the pad back to her, snagged a waiter as he went by, ordered something even more ferociously alcoholic.

"I didn't write it, Flynn. This is Alliance speculation, not mine."

"That'd explain _that_ nonsense then. " He jabbed a finger at the pad. She held it back out, and eventually he took the dossier again, read from it. "'_Unknown force attacking select species'_."

"Scroll a page." He did. A small video played. It showed edited attacks from various locales. He nodded, more to himself.

"I c'n see why they're concerned."

"As of yet, there are no reports of anything like this on Earth, Thessia or Palaven. So far it's been restricted to outer colony worlds."

"Rim colonies, by the looks of it." He cast an eye up at her.

"No, they don't speculate on it."

He just grunted, kept reading.

"'_Unusual alien death on Hranta'_? Is'na that planet four-balls-deep in the new krogan 'Breedin' Holes'? _Tá gach duine ag dul ar mire ach mé._"

"Stick to Standard or English – and don't be crude, Flynn – it's unattractive. " Miranda chided. The 'Outer Protectorate' as it was actually called was the three systems granted the krogan by the Council for their actions in the War. The krogan used them as heavily-guarded and fiercely-protected _breeding grounds. _Every viable krogan female had been transported there and the krogan then threw hoops of steel around them. Clean, safe planets to birth the new Genophage-free generations. So far they'd not asked for any more. _So far._

Non-krogan only went there via special invitation. Non-invited non-krogans didn't come back.

"And _no_, we're not all crazy. That's the latest. Salarian technical teams. The krogans crushed whatever it was and sent it to Sur'kesh. It was intercepted later and redirected to one of the outer Sol System Research stations to be analyzed."

"Well, I kinna go anywhere near krogan territory – I'm fairly certain they wouldn't be lettin' me into their breeding space."

"We wouldn't be going there."

He shook his head, like one would expressing sorrow – or mock pity.

"I might admire th' bastard, but he's nae friend of mine."

Right. _Torfan. _Some incident she'd never been privy to, one she hadn't cared about at the time.

Miranda stood. She really didn't have time to convince him and certainly wasn't about to – as Hackett had obliquely suggested in the dossier (_Flynn had a reputation as a bit of a womanizer, not that Hackett knew of their past_) – use her "wiles" on him. Appealing to his standards as an N7 hadn't worked. The man was a mercenary? Fine. He was driven mostly by his instincts and wants then. Mercenaries were flexible in their causes – given enough incentive.

"I'd pay you, Flynn. Generously. You were a …suggestion from someone I respect, although I have to wonder at it, now. I don't have the time to waste trying to talk sense into that standing stone you call a brain."

He just looked at her.

"A suggestion? From whom?" His sea-green eyes glittered.

"Councillor Hackett."

He let out a loud bark of a laugh.

"Ol' Crack-It Hackett." He nodded. "Aye, _that_ was a man whose word was allays good. Hard as nails, but fair."

"He speaks highly of you. I'm assuming it was because he was possibly inebriated that day."

"Yuir hard on the ego, lass." He paused. "Hackett, was it? I'll be damned." He seemed to ponder it a few moments, then shrugged. "Nah."

"What?"

"_No._ I'll pass."

"After everything I've told you? You still say no?"

"Aye. It's one of the two shortest words in the language. Ehn_. _Oh. _No_."

"I'll pay you well." Knew what would follow as soon as she said it. He leaned back, crossed his arms.

"Ye can't afford me."

"People change." She told him, simply trying to explain it without really explaining something she just wasn't any good at – much to her dismay. "Never thought you'd change _this much_."

Flynn eyed her, shook his head. Change? She was almost as he remembered her, if seeming now a little less rigid, a little less tightly-wound. On the surface, Miranda Lawson had been much female without much feminine, smart without enough humility, and confident with a smidge too much arrogance, with a rather prodigious pool of talent wrapped in a distracting body that she used as a weapon, of which he begrudged her not remotely. Every once in a while though, you could see, if you were fortunate enough, flashes of the _real_ woman underneath, sweet and funny, with an immense capacity for kindness and empathy, a sharp, penetrating and compassionate intelligence. Miranda Lawson's great misfortunate, however, was the unnecessary sea of loneliness she had cast herself adrift on, that kept that truly beautiful woman far from shore and happiness. Still, the two opposing forces in her made her what she was, and he wouldn't try to change her for a sea of credits. He knew better than that. He hoped she never relaxed _too_ much - it'd ruin her. Damn her, but she was a hard act to follow. It was just a pity, that, as supposedly passionate as she was in protecting and saving the entire human race, she hadn't the ability to give a damn about _individual_ humans past being a resource to use and discard.

From what he could see, that hadn't changed at all.

Flynn didn't change. He saw no reason. He hadn't changed as much as she seemed to think, but then, she'd not had the courage to stick around long enough to find out, had she? Whatever she thought she was now, well, it changed nothing for _him_. Flynn trusted no one, not a pretty face or a lovely body, nor ever sweet words. Certainly not coming from _her._ He'd _cared_ and she'd _punished_ him - hard - for it.

"You don't know anything." He got up, turned. "Later."

He didn't get far. A face he knew and never thought to ever see again materialized before him.

"Dullahan," the face said, with a small smile.

Flynn stopped.

"Fookin' _Winston Black_." From behind him, Shizuka stepped out. She folded her arms and sent him a mighty frown.

"Stupid asshole," she told him, voice not remotely friendly. " - you should stop talking and listen for once."

"The Hammer and the Duke," Miranda heard him mutter. He rubbed his face, stroked his hand through his hair. He took a deep breath, released it, turned.

"A little pedestrian, isn't it?" Miranda was surprised at the look of _betrayal_ in his eyes. "Using me old frien's agin me?"

"They were part of my mission brief. I told you this was serious."

"I'm not your friend," Shizuka said unnecessarily. Flynn just smirked at her.

"Whatever." He started walking again.

"I have always been your friend, Dullahan." Black told him, walking toward him, extending his hand.

"Don't play nice with this… _mercenary_." She made the word sound remarkably like she'd just said "piece of shit", and Flynn actually smiled a genuine smile of his own.

"What's the difference? Paid is paid, no matter who's doin' the payin'." He shot her a sideways look. "Or are ye doon all this outta yer deep-rooted charitable sensibilities?"

"_Fuck you."_

"_Stop_ – yer hurtin' me _feelin's_."

Shizuka's eyes just hardened, but she said nothing further.

"This _is_ important, Dullahan." Black said, calm, hand still waiting.

Flynn regarded it for a while before finally taking it.

"Yer still too fookin' tall, Duke." He told him, eliciting a genuine smile from the man.

"I agree. Akilah still refuses to dance with me." The woman in question shook her head, not about to be engaged.

Duke did nothing frivolously. This was a man whose word was good.

"Ye think it's worth it then, Duke?"

"It is a mystery that kills in numbers, Dullahan. It is too specific to be anything but malevolent in intent."

Flynn snorted, re-shook the hand he'd yet to relinquish.

"'Intent is irrelevant if it goes against our interests'. So say the asari."

"An odd class of asari."

"Not as odd as ye moight think."

He released Duke's hand, turned back to Miranda, contemplated her.

"Aye. Well, then."

"So you'll come?" She asked.

"No. I still haen't any good reason to stick _my_ neck owt."

"I gave you half-a-dozen! This is an _imminent threat_!"

Flynn scoffed, waved her away, stepped around Duke.

"Nae to me t'isn't."

Miranda let out a disgusted sigh, shook her head, left. His old comrades followed her.

Flynn just nodded at Black as he went by. Black seemed disappointed, but nodded back. Flynn ignored the glare from The Hammer - she was still hating him for Torfan. Well, she could hate him all she liked.

Flynn sighed to himself, stopped for a moment to ponder the just-now awakening Thohrin. He '_humph'ed_', knocked the turian back out and continued on. He stepped out in time to see Miranda climbing into an expensive aircar and taking off.

History repeating itself? Not if he could help it. He only needed his guts ripped out once a lifetime, thanks.

He managed about halfway to his "flop" when he was surrounded by armed people in armor - bone-white, with black skeletons painted over, all save one whose armor was the reverse. New livery to him. They also held guns he'd never seen before. A quick count netted him twenty. Showing not an ounce of fear, Flynn stopped, crossed his arms.

"C'n I help you lads?"

"_Die."_ Was all black armored one said, as the rest opened fire.


	32. This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

**LOCATION UNKNOWN**

**SYSTEM UNKNOWN**

**DATE UNKNOWN  
**

* * *

_"The other gods! The other gods! The gods of the outer hells that guard the feeble gods of earth!... Look away... Go back... Do not see! Do not see! The vengeance of the infinite abysses... That cursed, that damnable pit... Merciful gods of earth, I am falling into the sky!"_

* * *

**"YOU CARE TO EXPLAIN THAT?"** They seemed to be moving, but Shepard hardly noticed.

"The Pathosis infected the Intelligence of The Leviathan Solution. If it hadn't, you would have been left with very limited choices, none of which would have had outcomes favourable to your continued existence. The Intelligence had arrived at one solution with three branches. All of which would have necessitated an elimination of this Receptacle. As I said, it was terribly flawed."

"_They_ added the option to counteract the Reapers' barriers?"

"As you saw, it _was_ the most expedient method, the one that offered the maximum in evolutionary benefits."

Shepard looked down, saw himself slowly drifting across that great open space, toward the huge 'being' in the center of it. He'd long-since stopped being surprised or dazzled by anything.

"People are still dying in the millions, everywhere." Mulholland was unmoved, not particularly surprised to be moving along with him.

"Evolution extinguishes species constantly. As I said, it plays no favourites. What makes ours exempt?"

Shepard opened his mouth, closed it. _What were you going to say, Vic? If you were religious, you'd have a standard answer which would just be dismissed as irrelevant, any scientific 'explantion' would meet the same response. Life doesn't move to any stage of perfection or completion, it just moves. It adapts or it vanishes, all dependant on the random – and sometimes not so random – forces of the universe. A random gamma ray burst from dying star a million light years away can kill an entire solar system. Just… happens. No malevolence, no benevolence. It's the only thing that makes sense, even if it kicks one in the ego. _So, he just nodded instead, kept his mouth shut.

"The Intelligence was a woefully limited machine. In all of its time, it derived only _three_ solutions it felt worthy of consideration from available variables, and rejected all others. Granted, they were the three it determined most beneficial to itself. All creations mimic their creators."

"Even that?" He pointed to the being above them.

With a straight face, Mulholland looked directly at him and said simply,

"No."

"Didn't think so," he said dryly. "According to the Intelligence, at least two of those didn't really serve it at all – one would have destroyed them and one would have given me complete control over them."

"Destroying the Reapers would have undone much of the technology upon which your society is based. That would have served their primary mandate. Controlling the Reapers would have drawn the full attention of _all_ the Leviathans. This would have also served their primary mandate."

"I see. So, They simply made the other solutions it had considered untenable selectable again?"

"Correct. For all of its sophistication, it was in the end only a construct and therefore had no choice but to obey."

"How'd the quarians lose control of the geth then?" he asked, only half-serious.

"Fear. Those who could control the geth chose not to, and those who required it did not know how." She gave him a sidelong glance. "You know yourself, that save for self-defence, the geth _continued_ to do precisely what they had been created for, yes?"

Shepard considered a moment, then nodded. It certainly sounded true.

"Even now, the geth are controllable."

"Because they're still machines?"

"In that they now consider themselves people."

Shepard blinked at that.

"It's that simple, is it?" Skeptical.

"Individuals are chaotic. You, for instance, are a shaper of events because you are not 'loyalty-specific', as it were. You usher in change far beyond your physically-limited sphere. In contrast, the geth were, before Legion, basically _one individual_. Now they are many. It is simplistic but essentially true."

"Multitudes are easier to control than individuals?"

"Of course. There would be no religion, war or civilization without this phenomenon."

Shepard considered it, had to agree. 'Mob mentality' writ subtly on a large scale. Psychologists called it the 'Coliseum Effect' – why people in large events all tended to go with the general atmosphere – dictators used it at rallies, performers at, well, performances, priests at evangelical meetings. One could attend a rally uncommitted and by the end of it be cheering or booing with everyone else without any conscious shift. It would only be after, separated from the crowd, that an individual would realize – but not always – that they had been swept up and gone right along – even if it opposed their personal beliefs. Some even likened the phenomenon to a 'temporary psychological virus' – there were rumours of salarians even seeking to develop an _actual_ virus that mimicked the effect – mind control on a colossal scale. So far – as far as he knew, they hadn't succeeded.

Beneath their feet, the Milkiway slowly turned. He liked the view, almost swore he could see worlds burning. He had felt guilty about taking his 'vacation' when so much remained to be done, but it had been that or burn out so thoroughly he'd be useless forever. Like they'd all told him, he'd earned it, and then some.

He had a feeling he was about to go back to work.

"You are where you appear to be." She told him as they traveled. Shepard thought to ask where they were going, but figured he'd just wait and see.

"Where were we?"

"Transverse space. It is a pocket of your reality folded upon itself, and then put at right angles to itself."

"You could have just said, 'don't ask'." She smiled at that.

"Neither of us would have survived much longer there."

"You're a mouthpiece but…"

"Still human. At least I think I am. Feel like it. Have a bit of a headache."

"I can imagine."

"We are as far away as we appear, if distance means anything."

"I don't feel as anxious about that as I think I might have otherwise."

"There's no need for anxiety." Amy went back to that segueing in and out of her own personality and whatever was giving her details. "Our destination."

She pointed before them. In the distance, growing rapidly, was the spitting image of the Citadel, only many, _many_ times more massive. There was no way to determine actual scale, but Shepard instinctively knew it to be so. Around it was arrayed a series of rings of what appeared to be stars, spaced evenly apart, running the length of the station, as if this Citadel sat in the center of a rather precise star cluster.

"Another Citadel?"

"The …Alpha Citadel, to use your terminology. There are many Citadels. The one you know is only a small junction within your Galaxy. So far the only one you have discovered." Shepard nodded.

"…since there are still a lot of closed Relays."

"Many are beyond your ability to open. Most are not within your Galaxy. This was by design."

"Is it as big as it looks?"

"The Alpha Citadel is approximately twenty-five times the size of any other Citadel. It operates precisely the same way – with minor differences, of course, as the others."

"So… the Reapers built the Relays…" he stopped, considered, amended. "This Pathosis agent of yours _influenced_ the Reapers to build the Relays." Another nod. "Am I correct in assuming those stars are also your creations?"

They were a little _too_ precisely aligned around this Citadel.

"They are not stars." Mulholland pointed to one in the distance. "They are…" she hesitated, looking for a word. "Compressions. Pockets of modified Transverse spacetime used as …storage, as it were."

"Storage? Of what?" Shepard's back ached for a moment. He rolled his shoulder and the ache receded.

"Alternatives would be the closest analogy. Inside are housed variants on designs of evolution. Raw material. This material is kept in appropriate environments. From here, modifications can be made to the main Receptacle. Occasionally variant samples from the Receptacle are extracted and stored."

"If I understand this correctly – _if_ I'm following this, and please, correct me if I'm way off-base here – my Galaxy is basically a big pot, on the evolutionary 'simmer' setting, and every once in a blue moon, you reach in there…" he pointed to the 'star', "to pull out fresh or different ingredients to change the flavour. Sometimes you turn up the heat, sometimes you turn it down. Every once-in-a-while you stir things. Sound about right?"

'Mulholland' looked at him with that combination look she'd had, that "dumbass gets something right/I'm impressed" one.

"Exceedingly crude, but essentially correct. To follow your metaphor, sometimes we remove flavours and add new ones to change the recipe. Sometimes we alter ingredients altogether."

"And this 'Pathosis' thing is how you do it." Another nod. Shepard looked up as they moved between the open arms of the Alpha Citadel. It _was_ colossal. Odd to see it so dark, though.

"Sometimes," she told him as they dipped between the arms and accelerated, "The Pathosis is only one agent. It is generally the most expedient. Also, Variants from the Compressions escape. This is permitted, but it is not common. If too many escape, it can be disruptive." Shepard noticed the speed as immense, but felt nothing. "Sometimes, the disruptions are permitted, like the Leviathans. If it is too disruptive, it can ruin the recipe, as it were. One such variant is on the path of being just that."

"What is it?"

"It's called by its enemies the 'Pandemonia'. It's a conglomeration of Variants that have become aware – crudely - of the Pattern and Method, that believe the Pathosis an extension of a deity or deities and therefore is an instrument of a 'divine will'. In your terminology they are 'fanatics'. The Resumption has begun, but the Pandemoniacs are set to unduly influence its progress. They are already in play and will soon be in force. They have the capability on your level to do _immense_ damage. Their fleets are huge, their weapons are not based on mass effect technology, but dark energy manipulation."

"We use dark energy derivatives."

"Mass Effect technology allows you to manipulate dark energy on a basic level. This Variant Threat uses dark energy as a _primary_ energy source. For instance, the disruption of the star Dholen was their doing."

"What was the point?"

"To do it. A test of an idea."

Shepard rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"A test – to do what? Blow up stars?"

"An effective weapon."

"You can't just wave your hand and stop them?" Mulholland looked at him as if he were an idiot. He'd seen that look a few too many times in the past.

"No. Everything that can happen is allowed to happen. In a way, the Pandemonia is also a force for change and an evolutionary modifier. However, if they disrupt _too_ much, they will, like the Reapers, become the dominant variance within the Receptacle. The Resumption will be once again interrupted and the experiment corrupted."

"Which means, what – another billion years of pointless murder…?" She shook her head.

"This Receptacle will be reset and repurposed." Her tone made what she was saying clear.

"So, instead of just a few selected races, They'll purge the _whole_ Galaxy and start over, with 'assets' from your 'Compressions'."

"They will also be forced to purge the Compression from which the Pandemonia originate and any they have influenced. If that happens, this Receptacle will simply be judged 'failed' and eliminated completely." She thought a moment. "_Erased_ completely."

"They can destroy an _entire_ Galaxy, just like that?" He put up a hand to stop her reply. "Of course They can, They built it in the first place. So much for 'everything that can happen will be allowed to happen.'"

"Well, it _will _be allowed to happen. _Then_ it will be erased."

"There's nothing you can do?"

"I am doing something. I can influence, but cannot overtly interfere. As such, I require you to do that for me."

"And how would you like me to 'interfere'?"

"Stop the Pandemonia."

Shepard found himself in a docking bay. It was disconcerting to see such a massive space so completely empty – well, not _entirely_ empty. A Keeper wandered by on its way to wherever.

"The Keepers your creatures?" A shake of her head. Behind him, the space out the window was mostly Void. In the distance, the Milkiway.

"They are a product of the Citadels, created by the Citadels themselves, complete constructs. They do not possess life as you understand it."

"You make it sound as if the Citadels were alive."

"They are - after a fashion. At their hearts they contain an... awareness. It is a conscious thing, but only of itself. Have you never wondered how your Citadel generated power and atmosphere, heat and light?"

"We always assumed there were keeper-tended mass effect furnaces or something at the heart of the Citadel - or something similar. Of course, I always wondered where all the eezo would come from to power something that big..."

"The Citadel itself is only the protective shell around this awareness. Needless to say, it does not perceive the universe the way you or I do, and it is not alive as we consider life."

"Right. Okay, why am I _here_?" He was examining the interior. From here it looked like the Citadel he knew, save the bay was easily many times larger. There were no numbers anywhere, but it could have been D24 on his Citadel, so identical it was, save in size.

"Because here is where you can begin – and do the most good." Out of nowhere, Mulholland punched him hard in the arm again with one of her smiles. "_Jackass_." She turned, walked off toward a lift. "Follow me."

"Where to now?"

"Armor and weapons, Shepard. Or did you wanna walk around naked?"

Shepard looked down. Yeah, he was naked.

"You're doing this on purpose."

She stopped, looked back with an appreciative eye.

"Arrogant, aren't you?" A pause. "Well, I am myself _now_, while I'm here, so... yes." She started walking again.

Shepard huffed, and nude, went after her.

"I might appreciate this more if this was_ Pre_-Torfan."

They stepped into the lift and she activated it.

"Oh, don't be so maudlin. We'll find you clothes."

"Good."

"Eventually." A smirk, then she laughed.

"Jack is going to _kill_ me," he muttered, and Mulholland just laughed harder.


	33. The First and The Last

**-INTERLUDE-**

* * *

**HOUSE OF THE LORD REMNANT**

**FIRST REALM OF THE DIVINE DESOLATION**

**301st YEAR OF THE AWAKENED ERA**

**GAIA**

* * *

**THE ROAR OF THE LAST LIGHTER** taking off from its private dock died away. More edicts for the outer reaches, more orders for those who waited at the Staging. Far below, the last of the Official Dissension were being dealt with and their bodies stacked to be shipped and recycled. The vast hall behind him seemed to sigh with the breaths of those assembled and awaiting, servants and ministers arrayed, robed and silent, awaiting _his_ pleasure.

He had no name, only his title: Lord Echo Remnant of the Divine Desolation, though others called him the 'True Son of the Echo', the 'Hand of the Cursed', names he did not protest, but did not give much in the way of credence. He needed only the one. There was no government, only his rule, only his word, only his will.

He was 81st Lord Echo Remnant since the First True Echo and the Awakening, and easily the most ruthless. He was tall, made taller by the armored exosuit he wore under his robes of office, the suit like a second skin, making him faster, stronger and more durable than most. Like the identity of the True Echo, it was a closely guarded secret of the Sacred House. He had a hawkish nose, sharp cheekbones, a bold chin, and black eyes, product of the sensor overlay that enhanced his vision. Between his eyes and extending down to the tip of his nose he wore the silver dagger of the First Obedience, to remind all who looked upon him that he alone held the power of life and death over the UnTold billions. To be killed by or on the Order of The Sacred House meant Grace and the Divine Enfolding. To die any other way not Sanctioned meant Loss and Oblivion. The Cursed Remnants followed and obeyed, they the last of the Divine Made Flesh, condemned to mundane matter until all had been Blessed by the Desolation, hence their Curse and their burden.

Only The House knew the Ways of the Desolation, only The House knew Where and When and Who Would Be Chosen.

He turned from the immense windows, from the huge city before him, the Capital of all, for there were no others, but it wasn't a city, not really. It was actually _one_ building, the Lord Remnant's Temple Fortress. He looked back over the equally immense halls, all pillars and gold leaf and huge spaces, all to the purpose of the Emulation of The Echo. It was one of the most immense planetary structures ever created by Man. _One_ building, the size of a continent, all with one purpose: to Aid the Awakening, to carry out the Will, to seed it across the Outer Universe. The Tribute had built this place, the most Sacred in the Galaxy. At the end of the last Crusade, a century before, with the fall of the last of the blue Witches' temples, it remained the only place of worship on the Civilized Worlds, all other False having been struck down and razed.

The Lord Remnant put his hands behind his back and walked in no hurry toward the balcony where he would address the Precursor Legions, the small Expeditionary Force that would precede the main Armies, who would follow when all was parallel to the Design. The Articulation, as it was called in the Texts, had been a Voice from The Scissure, heard by his progenitor over 300 years ago. It had uttered the Five Precepts, the only Facts that were true. He knew them as he knew his own skin, his own mind.

_There is An Answer._

_All Will Serve, All Will See._

_There is Salvation In Destruction._

_Order Must be Imposed._

_There is only One End._

He glanced down at the Witch at his feet, refusing to even acknowledge their race name – (_for it certainly didn't matter any longer, as they were now nothing more than another servant race, their culture long since obliterated_) faces on the floor, horns clipped and capped, selectively lobotomized to remove their powers. They made _excellent_ servants once so pacified, the access to their witchfire cut off. Their clothing was flimsy, filmy and mainly designed to hinder any desire to flee. It had no pockets, they wore no shoes. They had nowhere to go.

At the far of the chamber, collar-locked and also domesticated - his favourite Brutes – he forgot at the moment what they had once called themselves, like the Witches it really mattered not any longer; guarded the entrances to the Hall. He was pleased with the latest Dissention. Five hundred thousand martyrs – aliens, yes, true, but Food for The Desolation _was_ an exalted ending, even moreso for aliens. They were sacrificed to keep Humanity free to do the Divine's Will, which was, of course, All.

Halfway down the hall he spied the Beloved, She Who Carried The Will, awaiting him. She possessed the Litany transcribed into her living flesh, and thus the Litany lived in her Blessed Form. As he drew parallel to Her, she gracefully rose and joined him at his side. In her robes, she looked ethereal and light, beautiful and serene. In his arms, however, she was anything but, one of the qualities he admired in Her, Her Blessed Dichotomy. Her robes were rich and rust-coloured, chased through with gold and platinum thread, She hooded against unworthy eyes. In all the universe, She was the only thing he cherished.

"Speak," he told Her, "I can see you have news."

She nodded, tucked Her hands into Her sleeves.

"The Pogrom of the Horns proceeds apace. They have proven clever and wily, so much so they have actually given the Ninth Legion pause. Nevertheless, the planet will be Purged by the end of the next OverFestival, though they are stubborn."

"Excellent. Tell the Lord Hound of Thrice to spare a few million for Rectification. If they are so clever, _some_ may be useful, collared."

She nodded, continued.

"The Voices have begun to speak. The Scissure tells of the Resumption. You were right to assemble the Endless so soon, though your ministers protest."

"Of course they did. They must feel useful, after all." He nodded. Somewhere, far away, a bell tolled, a note he enjoyed. The note would chime all over the world and on every colony. It was time to pray to him for his guidance, for the Will to be Spread. For a moment, every world would be silent all at once. "I knew, of course I knew. All through the Corridors the Pulse flew, heralding the destruction of the False Machines, its fire reaching even through the Scissure. What else could follow if _not_ the Resumption?"

"Resistance is being noted, however." She told him softly. "Initial sorties have been found out, or soon will be. Nascent resistance is being reported." He arched an eyebrow.

"So soon? We have barely begun. The Corrupted rear up, never learning."

"Naturally. It may be we have yet apostates among us. None could know of the Resumption so soon save those in the Precedents."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a Witch drop her head back to the floor.

_So. Listening, were you? Well, well. Is it possible to be so ringed with traitors even here? So much ignorance in the universe. So many railed against the Inevitable._

Still casual, he told The Beloved,

"I shall task to your able hands an Inquisition. That they could be among Us stretches belief, could have somehow foiled the Sieves, but it has happened before." The Beloved bowed Her head. "You may use your own discretion in this matter, of course."

"Lord – a disturbing development." She frowned. The Beloved had been implanted long ago, her Ears hearing all that needed Hearing.

"Speak, Beloved."

"External agents report that a number of Corrupted appear to be assembling at the Silent Pivot. They cannot report numbers, but assure Us it is True."

"Prepare a troop of Your Inquisitors for special duty. Fifty should do. Send them to the Pivot. They are _not_ to harm the Pivot, however."

"As you Command. I am concerned, Lord."

"For what matter?"

"The Corrupted are as we once were. Collected, could they not be a force to trouble Us?"

"I will offer them the Redemption, of course, Beloved. But I will sweep them aside should they oppose us."

"That seems inevitable."

"Nothing is inevitable, save the Passing of The Will." He smiled at her. "Be at ease, Beloved. Tend to your Inquisition, I shall secure the future. I am That Which I Am, am I not?"

"Yes, Lord." She bowed her head, and he nodded, satisfied.

"Begin your Inquiry," he said, as he came to the Witch who'd been listening, suddenly stepping to her and dropping his foot on her neck. She yelped, squirmed. "…with these things." A exosuit-powered stomp crushed the witch's neck vertebrae and stopped both noise and scrabbling. "They may have sympathetics in the Sieve."

"At once, Lord. The Endless await you." He bowed to Her once, it was returned, and She turned from him to exit via a side passage.

Behind him, unheeded, two witches dragged the dead from the hall, food for his Brutes, another scrubbing the floor where it had died. He stepped around the altar, walked a short hallway and through a massive ornately-carved gold door to a large balcony overlooking an vast plaza, kilometers square.

As he stepped into a view, a deafening roar greeted him. Hidden microphones along with a concealed massive and advanced sound system carried his voice effortlessly across that mammoth space. Below, every square meter had a body in it, armed and armored, the soldiers in their white armor, the officers in their black, all bearing the skeletal pattern that told all they were true to death. Above them hovered the Ships of the Desolation, above those the colossal troop transports that could carry three hundred thousand troops at a time. Above them the mighty warships that would carry the fight to the Corrupted. They called his mighty force 'Pandemonia', but it was merely their misguided label, their fear and ignorance.

The Lord Remnant was the Hand of the Cursed, the Endless his Fist. The Fist that had conquered this space would conquer all else.

More than _fifty billion _of The Endless waited, Holy Warriors of the Cursed Remnants of the Divine Desolation, all Blessed by the Infestation, all Purified. Each of his armies, stationed at key points in this 'reality' (_only the House knew the true nature of this 'universe'_.) was five hundred million strong, all preparing for the Day of Release, when they would spread across the Lie like a wave, bringing Salvation through Desolation to all. Below him, five million strong, his First Wave, the tiny expeditionary force to pacify and clear the Way. He raised his hands, and as one, the roar ceased.

"Spear of the Endless! The Scissure has _Spoken! The Progression begins_!" Another roar from the troops below. "Once again, the Corrupted slink from their holes to bar our way! Once again they seek to stop the Inevitable and restrict the Divine Reach of the Blessed Desolation!" Another roar, this time in anger. "Warriors - to your Deaths! Prepare the Way, ease the passing of the Sanctified Desolation! Bring to the Corrupted the Inevitable! This is _your_ Sacred Task, _your _Holy Charge, _your_ Divine Right! Magnificent Endless! The Remnants bless you, the Divine Follow you! _Go!_"

The roar rose to immense proportions, turned into a chant that was both his name and a call to the Echo, soon to break off into hymns and devotionals - and he turned and left them to it. It would take days to embark all those troops, days more to get into formation to Fold out of the system and to the Staging. From there, they would pass from the First Realm into The Lie, the space beyond, and woe to any who stood before them. To prepare the way, he had already dispatched the mightiest ship of his fleet – the _Eternal Note, _to teach those of the Lie fear.

Now, though, an Inquisition. He smiled to himself, anticipating a fine day of entertainment. The witches died so well, lasted so long, their keening a particularly sweet music he found to his tastes, and the Beloved was so expert at seeking the Truth, even if it came from such desolate places.

Eventually, when the Realm expanded as it would invariably, he would have the remaining Corrupted under his boot or extinguished, those pale imitations of he and the Beloved, their infernal interference ended forever, allowing him at last to fulfill his only Purpose. The Corrupted - some even hailed as heroes and whose counterparts here he'd long since obliterated; the T'soni witch, with her wiles and secrets, neither of which protected her when the Beloved's Inquisitors arrived. She'd fought well, he'd been told, but it availed her little. T'soni had been paraded across the four points of the Temple, naked and bound, before finally being fed alive to his Brutes for the amusement of the rabble. The quarian nuisance, whose name he could not recall and whose pathetic resistance force had been crushed in less than a week, she'd begged like all the rest of her worthless race. He'd had her stripped from her suit and gave her naked and screaming to a troop of his men for their pleasure. She did not, it had been reported, last long, a few days before managing to throw herself from a window. She'd been the congratulatory meal for one of his arena Brutes for a well-fought bout, after she'd been scraped from the plaza she sullied. Her suit he had stuffed and mounted in his chambers. Then, the expulsion of the so-called "Last Turian", Vakar-something into the Lie, the only member of his race spared, his torment of being the very last sweet vengeance for the thorn in the side he'd been.

Those damn'd turian vermin…

There were _no_ turians alive in his Realm, not since they'd dared assault and occupy Gaia before the Scissure had opened and the Echo had empowered Humanity. His Hate for them was Divine in its light, and unquenchable in its thirst for their utter extermination. It had taken almost a century to eradicate them after they'd been thrown off Mother's Soil, almost every last one defiant and fighting to the end, for every centimeter, every last second of life. They were almost to be admired for such doggedness. Almost. Any trapped animal fought valiantly for its survival. It had been his immense pleasure to crush the last one slowly with his own hands, and to his delight, it had taken a long time to die.

The quarians proved more tractable. Their homeworld long occupied, they driven into space, now trapped in their sad fleets, trapped in those ridiculous suits, they patrolled the Stagings endlessly, in the vain hope that their planet would be returned to them – someday.

Poor fools.

As far as he could remember, his predecessors had long since killed the majority of them, razed the planet to the bedrock, burned off its atmosphere, there being nothing there for anything Human, had stripped it of any useful resource, then Cracked it like an egg and left it as a sad, dim asteroid field in its dead system. The planet's name had long since been blotted from memory, but he was fairly certain _they_ remembered. He supposed the quarians would just have to go on with their patrols, the 'pact' they had made after the failed insurrection, to patrol and report, to free his soldiers and ships for their far more important duties. Such a pact was meaningless only in that _they_ believed it. He discounted the rumours of the quarians building artificial servants – some private army to subvert their Task and eventually rebel again. He almost laughed at that – as a race, since they had been driven from their planet by those who came before him, the quarians had taken to environmental suits, and were so weak because of them one small tear in those suits doomed them. He had anti-quarian troops that were covered in spines and protrusions, with weapons that fired ballistically, fired spikes and blades and bullets coated in various poisons. He could wipe them out at any time, almost effortlessly. Where, he wondered, would they get either resources to build this 'army' or hide it from his Eyes?

Let them have their fantasies.

Their last attempt at a rebellion, led by the filth that once occupied the suit in his chambers, had cost them three million dead, a sizable reduction in their already declining populations, and it took less than a week to accomplish. He'd ordered a Rebuke, had fifty thousand of their females raped by his Brutes and soldiers and a hundred thousand of their children tortured to death, all broadcast live through their fleet as a reminder as to the price of opposition to Divinity. They had crawled back to their roles, craven, broken and utterly Chastised.

They were _nothing_, idiotic rumours be damned.

He eyed one of the – what _were_ they called? Ah, yes – '_krogan'_ guards as he went past. Animals, but useful ones. All krogan in the Temple were collared and controlled. They were favourites in the arenas, and his champion the most favoured at all, being undefeated in five hundred bouts. In recognition of his prowess he was allowed a name - the Lord Remnant called him "King" – an irony lost on the brainless dog, but amusing to the crowds. As long as they were collared, they were loyal. The wild ones bred like maggots in a corpse though, were savage and extremely violent, and considered a pest on the outer reaches, and the culls were always popular entertainment. He'd have to organize one after the Inquisition. Their numbers could not be allowed to grow _too_ large.

Yes. He had _order_ here. Order under his Enlightened Rule, and order soon to be spread gloriously across the universe and enforced forever.

The Lord Remnant – a great and loving father, a true shepherd to his loyal flock, would see to it.

**-INTERLUDE ENDS-**


	34. Old Refrains

**ALPHA CITADEL**

**SYSTEM INAPPLICABLE**

**OCTOBER 2188  
**

* * *

_History may not repeat itself, but it does rhyme a lot._

_ - _Mark Twain

* * *

**JACK PUSHED HERSELF** out of 'Murtock's' grip, staggered back.

"_What the fuck is this_? You _can't_ be here. There is no way."

He was dressed in the last clothes she'd seen him in – those brown leather pants and black boots, the battered stolen repainted Eclipse and Blue Suns armor pieces. With a dull-crimson longcoat with the arms cut off over everything. He had an _Avenger_ VIII on his back, a _Brawler_ VII on his hip and a _Katana VI_ at his back. He had a couple of krogan-made knives strapped to his chest.

At first glance, he looked the same. Smelled the same. Something was …off, though. Something she couldn't quite place – aside from the obvious.

"There's all kinds'a ways. One, I _live here_. Sorta. Two, _so do you_. Kinda."

"There's no way _I _can be here!"

"_Whoa_ – you got some good 'Hallow' last night, huh? I knew I shoulda stayed." He went rummaging around the bed – more a mattress on the floor, really. "Where's the blanker agent? You don't have time to be high. We gotta go make some money."

'_Hallow'?_ 'Hallow' was the street-name for _Halladrexine 121_ - an asari medi-grade biotic enhancer – it was also addictive as hell in large doses. It was pressured in, usually into a major artery – or "slid". Side effects included organ failure and blood leaking out of unpopular orifices. Jack hadn't touched the stuff in almost a decade.

Murtock found a pad as he rooted through the stuff on the floor.

"_I am the black and scarlet dream_

_the last bloody eye, the last gasping scream… - _the hell is this?"

Jack reflexively batted it out of his hand.

"Nothing! Leave shit alone!"

Murtock shrugged and kept rummaging. After another moment, he stopped, stood, hands on hips.

"All right – _where_ is it? _Are _you Hallowed? Was it something else?"

Jack fought down a headache snaking under her skin looking to drop down behind her eyes.

"What – _no_! No drugs!" He shook his head, not believing her. She staggered to a dirty sink near the bed, leaned on it, breathed. "Just give me a damn minute!"

"You're acting like you're spun, Jackie." He crossed his arms. "This score will be big if we pull it off and I need your ass operational."

"Fuck off, asshole! Let me think for _five goddamn minutes!_" _Was_ she on drugs? It felt like she was coming down off… something. Did she just imagine the last ten years of her life as some Hallow-induced hallucination? No. That was just _stupid_. She'd never been _that_ bombed. She wouldn't hallucinate all the shit that happened to her like that. She sure as hell wouldn't have hallucinated _Shepard. _Reality and where she was now were two opposing things, she was fairly certain.

She looked up into the broken mirror over the sink. She looked as normal as she ever got. Shaved head, tattooed makeup, all other ink she could see correct.

Oh, and she was naked but for a pair of plain black thong underwear. _Shepard likes these. I never wore these much, but Shepard likes 'em…_

Murtock had looked cross for a moment, then waved the remark off, started to walk toward her, stopped, pointed, as if suddenly noticing.

"_The fuck_? _When_ did you get all this new ink? I was only gone a day and a half!" He poked her right _gluteus_. "What the fuck's an 'N7' and why is it on your ass?"

_So he didn't know about her ink. No, of course - _she didn't have half the ink she had now as when she ran with Murtock. So, stuff could legitimately be crushed and exploded - or both - soon.

His hand slapped her ass, lingered, leaned around her with his familiar leer.

Jack suddenly felt …too exposed. Yeah, this _might_ be Murtock, and yeah, every sense told her that this _was_ Murtock, _but_ her rational mind insisted it was impossible, and she was inclined to believe it. So she was 98 percent naked, and it was just… stupid… and yeah, she'd never cared _before_, but _now_ she did. She was _different_ now. To see it – to _touch _it - you had to… well, fuck it - you _had_ to be _Shepard_, and that was that. She slapped his hand off her ass, pushed him back, wheeled around on him.

"None of your goddamned business!" She was suddenly wide awake. Blue flared around her. "You've got two seconds to explain how I got here and who you are!"

"Sweet_heart_," he told her with that sarcastic tone that had bought him that broken nose. "This is _your_ fuckin' Hallow haze."

"You can drop the act." she said dangerously. 'Murtock' crossed his arms and pursed his lips. Even his ink was authentic. As he had always been in the face of her rages, he said fearlessly,

"_You_ gotta cut this shit out. We got a long day ahead of us – and I'm not goin' broke because you broke your damn promise. Winch your ass into some clothes and _let's go_."

He was good, but she was already nearing the dangerous edge of her patience.

"You tell me what's going on and I'll crush _your_ sorry ass to the size of a B-ball."

Murtock put his hands up defensively, like he always did when he'd realized he'd _really_ pissed her off – granted that _had_ been relatively easy to do. He even had that stupid eye tattooed on his left palm. Whatever this was, it was _thorough_.

"Okay... look - " He gestured behind her. "There's your gear, right _there_. Put it on, you'll be less touchy, yeah?"

Jack glanced back to see a large crate containing black Ariake Tech VIII-level Merc armor. It certainly looked like the gear she'd stolen five lifetimes ago – it wasn't new by a long shot, but it was clean, scaled down and tailored for her, with the _exact_ touches she'd have put on it if she'd ever forced herself to wear that much armor in the first place. She eyed it and him with suspicion, vaguely remembering there had been a time long ago that she'd worn heavier gear than usual because Murtock's many and varied always-failed-get-rich-quick schemes required it. They'd stolen that gear at one point, and she'd tried it for a while. She'd stopped wearing it after his death, trying to disassociate herself from all the things she'd felt then. Now, though, since the War, she'd worn the custom Serrice stuff Shepard had bought her, fitted with shunts and backup e-nodes and integrated auxiliary amps, the perfect suit for a _Vanguard_-class biotic. It looked sharp as hell and was comfortable, if more than she'd been used to wearing. Still, she was kind of _invested_ in living now, and every edge mattered. This old suit – a knock-off 'Sentinel' variant pulled off some long-dead Eclipse bitch - was surprisingly comfortable, as she pulled on the bodysuit on first, then fit the pieces over it. She saw the familiar shape of a shotgun at the bottom of the crate, pulled it out – an _Executioner_ VII, liberated from a batarian – it even had her name scratched in it. Under that, a _Kessler_ VIII. The weapons were period-specific, pre-t-clips. She felt her biotics even out as the suit's built-in controller nodes synced to her amps. Directional channels and extra e-packs she'd installed in the armor also synced.

Yeah – so… _this_ Murtock.

"Better yet?" He crossed his arms again. "You're rigged and armed, now, yeah? Shit together yet? All nice and calm?"

Jack had started to get a look at her surroundings by now. Out a dingy window, she saw the backside of a block on some Citadel ward.

_How in the blue end of fuck_ did she get on the _Citadel_? Some kind of holo-projection? A drug after all? Some kind of psychological trick or trap? That was another fuckup by whoever it was – she'd _never_ lived on the Citadel. It still explained precisely _squat_, so she skipped the futile path to an actual explanation and just addressed the foremost concern on her mind.

"Where's _Shepard_?"

"Who?" He looked genuinely confused, then suspicious. "Did he sell you the Hallow?"

Jack, patience leaping over that edge in an elegant swan dive straight to anger, pinned him to the wall with a biotic 'clamp'. He squirmed briefly, then relaxed, knew struggling was futile. Her _Kessler_ pushed his nose flat.

"Who the fuck are you? _Last chance_." She 'squeezed' the 'clamp' for emphasis. Murtock coughed as she did it.

"Jack – I'm your ol' Benny Murtock, yeah?" He smiled at her insolently. She _knew_ that face. But – more details were not meshing with her memories. She remembered well because the damn scheme he was talking about was the one on the batarian weapon frigate that had gotten him killed. The Murtock she had known had his busted nose bent to the left, this guy to the right. Her Murtock had broken his orbital bone over his right eye so badly that he'd been left with a slight squint in that eye, and this one had no such thing. He'd had a broken canine that gave him lopsided fangs – and this one's teeth were perfect. To top it all off, he hadn't aged a single day from the looks of him. Small details, but big enough.

"C'mon – you were probably just dreaming about me a minute ago."

He sent her a pitying look, still as fearless.

"You wanna get fried, do it _after_ a job, right?"

With a disgusted hiss she backed away, dropped him to the floor. Fine. She probably wasn't going to get any actual answers here. She channeled some biotic energy through her glove's sync into the shotgun to charge her ammo.

"You're _not_ Murtock." She cocked her head at him, growled, tried a different tack. "Whatever the fuck this is, _you're_ not the Murtock I knew. He's _dead – and_ I was not dreaming about _you._"

He just looked at her, not fazed, his attitude still one of being sure she was coming down off something.

"It's them dosages, Jackie. You gotta watch how much you slide." He smiled up at her. "You're here, now, where you was yesterday, right?"

That irritating tone he'd used to talk her down way back when. Damn - they had _seriously_ done their homework.

"We got a raid planned on some squints. We'll find you a pipe cleaner, get you flushed. This _is _your reality, babe. It's one of them things even drugs can't make you deny."

"I can deny anything I like," Jack said, sucking in a deep breath. All her senses said this was as real as it got, except it couldn't be. There was no such thing as time travel, it couldn't be '78, she wasn't 18, and she'd not been anywhere near the Citadel. She still had her N7 ink, still had her memories of Shepard, Collectors, Reapers, her students and all the time from then until yesterday. No matter who stood before her – the Benjamin Murtock she knew was _long_ dead – and she was _done_ playing this stupid game.

"Whatever. Look, you can stay and play …whatever the hell this is, but I'm leaving." She turned a dark eye on him. "I suggest you refrain from trying to stop me."

Murtock just laughed.

"Shit – listen to _you_! 'Refrain from'. Ain't we sophisticated alla sudden?"

"Yeah. Follow me and I'll blow you away. Not negotiable." Murtock just snorted, waved her away, his attitude of "_you'll be back_", plain. Jack stepped through the door, and the first thing she noticed was the silence. A very _deep_ silence. Stretching over her head she could see the other arms of the Citadel, but they were mostly dark, spotted only here and there with lights. No endless stream of vehicles, no glitter of apartment blocks and residences. No nebula. Just the Deep Dark and a small cluster of stars. Not the real Citadel then. _Just fucking_ _great. _

"Hey, Murtock," she called back into the grungy apartment. "You miss _this_ on your way in?"

She heard a sigh through the still-open door, then a stomping approaching.

"Thought you were leav… the _fuck?_" He shot past her, looking all around, at last looking up. He stood as if transfixed for long moments, until Jack shook her head and shoved him back into awareness with a rap from her shotgun.

"Well?"

"No…" Murtock muttered after another moment. He did a 360, looked back at his apartment. "No." His gaze went back to the sky and he pointed at various things up there, the dark, the lack of stars, traffic and lights, each finger point punctuated with a "No". The finger came down finally as he slowly pivoted around to look at her, finger following. "No?" She shook her head.

"No."

He looked lost and bewildered for a moment.

"Then _what_ the fu…?" She shrugged.

"Don't look at me! Not gonna find out standing here yapping about it, though."

"What'd ya suggest we do then?"

Jack rubbed a thumb over her bottom lip, contemplated. _What, _she wondered, _would Shepard do in this kind of situation? _She chuckled out loud at that. _Yeah, I'm head over for Big Hero Boy all right._

"What's funny?"

"Nothing. We got two choices: Presidium or the Docks." _He'd go to either one, probably the Docks first, look for a ship._

Murtock crossed his arms and slapped a skeptical look across his face.

"_Right_. Notice any _transport_ anywheres? This place is at the _outer edge_ of the arm. How long do you think it's gonna take for us to _walk_ anywhere here?"

Jack scowled at him.

"I don't remember you being this much of a whiny bitch." He scowled in return. "The Docks are closer, and have travel tubes and elevators. This place may not be inhabited, but it _does_ have power, dumbass."

Without waiting for him, she started off.

"Just wait a damned minute, wouldja?!" Jack slowed, but didn't stop. With a curse, he ducked back into his apartment, scrambled around for a few moments to emerge with a backpack and more weapons. He jogged after her. "Provisions."

Jack just shrugged and kept walking.


	35. Well, It Made Sense Yesterday

**NEW CHAMBERLAIN COLONY**

**SECOND LARGEST MOON OF BORR**

**EXODUS CLUSTER**

**OCTOBER 2188  
**

* * *

**WINSTON BLACK** was not missed until Shizuka noticed him no longer behind her.

"I can't force anyone to join us." Miranda had told her when she was informed of his absence. _Going after Flynn?_ Miranda wished him luck after a fashion, and thought maybe if Black could talk sense into the man, she'd ask just how he'd managed it, for she was fairly certain _that_ was a feat bordering on the impossible.

"Duke's too forgiving. _Damn_ Flynn." Again, Shizuka used that tone that made his name sound like she'd just uttered an curse.

"Trying to convince Flynn would seem to be a waste of his time." Miranda replied, not slowing. "As I said, he's not under my command."

"You're paying him, so he's at least under contract, and we shouldn't leave Duke behind. Flynn and folly go hand-in-hand and we _need_ Duke."

"I'm sure you're correct, but we don't have the time to wander the area looking for him. I'll order the _Phoenix_ to scan for him from orbit when we get out from under all the long-range comm jamming. I'm surprised there's this much for some second-rate wildcat mining operation."

_Besides,_ Miranda thought with a surprising amount of bitterness, _Flynn can take care of himself._

Shizuka frowned, but acquiesced. She'd been listening to Flynn and Miranda talk, not that she'd _meant_ to, not really, because she didn't actually care, but something there just wasn't ringing right. There was something deeper there, something to do with Miranda herself, and that just smelled like even more trouble.

Shizuka was seriously starting to wonder if wasn't too late to regret this whole thing.

* * *

**FLYNN SPAT DUST** then sucked in a breath as he slapped a dollop of medigel on his burnt arm. He softly grunted to himself as he heard footsteps scrabble past his hidey-hole. A quick handful of gravel reloaded Brigid. He pulled himself into a crouch, found a hole to peer through. _There were the buggers…_ down a few, but still dangerous.

He hadn't even waited for the leader to finish speaking. Flynn had simply and suddenly dropped flat to the ground and had Brigid in his hands as the troopers had opened fire and having rather stupidly surrounded him they managed only to kill three of their own and wound two others. Brigid had torn the legs off another and he'd rolled furiously out of the circle – knocking a few down in the process to buy himself a moment or two. _Then_ he ran like the devil was on his heels because he wasn't a damned fool. A shot had clipped him as he'd vaulted a low wall, the same shot killing an unfortunate drunk who'd chosen then to step into the street. He'd ridden the momentum and flipped himself between two large excavators that had bought him enough time to skid into this hole. He could see through the small gap between walls that these boys were serious professionals (aside from seriously underestimating him) – they didn't run willy-nilly or shout like idiots. If they were mercs they were exceptionally disciplined ones. Nor did they belong to any military he recognized, the weapons they carried straight up energy-spitters, rare enough in the civilized armies and completely unaffordable for any rag-tags. They'd split up into teams of three to methodically comb the area. Why they'd chosen _him_ specifically he couldn't imagine. No one from his past had the kind of coin it'd take to hire _these_ fellas.

He waited until the three nearest his hiding spot passed, backed himself out slowly. He waited for a few heartbeats. He could hear other teams on streets nearby but none but those three close enough to be an immediate concern. It might have seemed unlikely that a man his size could be particularly stealthy, but Flynn had learned his art from professional exemplars – for if N7's were the elite, what then did one call those who _trained_ those elite?

Stowing Brigid, Flynn silently rushed the three troopers from behind, grabbing two around the neck and using them as leverage to solidly kick the third in the back of the head sent him sprawling whilst using the momentum of the kick to pull he and the two rather surprised troopers forward, both locked securely in ferociously strong arms. Flynn then broke the necks of both as he dropped to the ground, his weight doing all the work. The third groaned only to be finished off with a hard stomp that sent him into oblivion still in a daze. A quick check of the corpses netted Flynn a few weapons, a few disc-shaped grenades that appeared to follow the old Alliance standard and a comm. There was no insignia on them anywhere he recognized, noting absently that the 'bone' patterns on their armor all had subtle differences. He pocketed the comm, tucked the guns and grenades, pulled himself to the roof of a nearby mining garage, wedged himself into a shadowed corner and took stock.

The rifle looked like a heavily modified _M-37 Falcon_, slightly heavier, with nothing that looked like an ammo chamber nor any opening for thermal clips. The pistol he'd stolen looked like a _Carnifex_, again with nowhere to use standard mods, ammo, or clips. Firing them was pretty standard from the looks of them. They were already primed, so point-and-shoot it was. Given the damage a near-miss had done to his still throbbing arm, a full-on hit would do some serious damage, likely kill him outright. The grenades were a kind he was familiar with – they resembled the old Mark XIV's, which Flynn had always liked and resented when they'd been discontinued. Unlike new kinds, the XIV's could be easily carried, easily concealed. Like t-clips, he had to wonder what went through the weapon-techies heads sometimes.

Below him, he heard chatter as his kills were discovered, feet moving with purpose up and down the street. The comm he'd purloined crackled softly and he quickly searched for an off-switch. He chose the most obvious one and the noise died.

…only to come back _louder and clearer_ as a voice demanded a sitrep. Flynn waited two entire seconds and then flipped himself off the roof and into the alley of the building just as two bright beams punched through the floor and through space he'd just occupied. The comm he threw away from him as hard as he could – hopefully a diversion - as he ran, being more a detriment in its unfamiliarity than useful at the moment. He could always grab another later, right after he kicked himself in the head for his own stupidity.

_Been away from it too bloody long. Forgot too much. _As he ran, however, he could feel old instincts kicking back in. Though he might have seemed like the last person to be one, despite what some might say, Flynn was an N7 _for good reasons._

Shots speared around him showering him with detritus, not slowing him. A quick glance back showed six troopers – including the black-armored leader - in full pursuit, and he slowed long enough to snap off a few shots with his purloined gun, managing to drop one and send the rest scattering. He had to admit he liked a weapon with no kick. Flynn threw himself over a safety barrier and leapt into mining traffic, momentarily slowing his pursuers. A few nimble dodges and he was on the other side, but he didn't get far. A shot hit him in the leg and he went head-over-heels, skidded into a pit barrier on the other side, grinding his teeth at the agony that shot up his leg.

Well, then. Last stand time. Suited him just fine.

Flynn dragged himself up against the barrier, put his back to it, weapons coming up. For the first time, he heard one of the troopers shout and point, but all he saw was a dark blur go over his head from the top of the barrier to spear into the troopers. A wild shot blew a hole above his head showering him with dust, causing him to curse and duck. When he looked up, he saw five dead troopers and the welcome form of one Winston Black, blades in hand.

"Well," he told his old friend. "Yer getting' _old_, Duke. Ye shoulda been here ten minutes ago."

"You move rather quickly for a clumsy oaf." Duke sheathed his blades, in no hurry. "There are others, but they are still behind us. We have time." He indicated Flynn's bleeding leg.

"It still works, jus' hurts like a bugger." Duke nodded while Flynn added another quick jolt of medigel. "Appreciate the save." Another short nod that accompanied a hand to help Flynn up.

"I don't recognize this livery," Duke returned to the bodies. He also helped himself to a rifle, grenades (stashed quickly in a pocket) and a comm. "These are not native technology."

"Part of yer 'mystery what kills'?"

"That is extremely possible." He turned the rifle in his hands as he walked back, the comm he tossed to Flynn. "Curious. I would say this weapon is composed of a ceramic-composite material."

"Makes sense. It's a burner, from the look o' it. Don't see them too much." Flynn agreed, investigating the comm with more care. A switch he'd not seen earlier shut the thing off. He reactivated it. Orders were being flung about, but so far it seemed the troopers had lost them. "Better'en swapping heatsinks alla time, but heavy on the batt'ries." Flynn tested his leg. Sore yet serviceable. He'd gone farther on worse. "I managed abou' a half-dozen. Lousy bloody shots, though."

"I have a feeling they may be the ones that chased me through the Boneyards." Black mused. He clipped the rifle to his back. This technology bore further research. "Perhaps as shots they are not quite as 'lousy' as you say - this weapon is on what appears to be a low-power setting." He frowned. "I would speculate killing you was not in their orders."

"Hmm. Well, too bad fer them. No' in th' mood to be caged today."

In the distance, sudden explosions, the dim sound of weapons fire and shouting people. The comm in his hand exploded in a staccato of orders and reports. The main body consisted of warnings that the 'locals' were attempting to engage them.

"'Pears the folks hereabouts didna take kindly to them fellas shootin' up the place. Take's the heat offa us – a'least for a bit."

"We shouldn't count on that. How far are we from your quarters, Dullahan? We need to leave this moon."

"No' far. I took some near me ship. I used the miners' port, not the civvie one." He oriented himself. "Tha' way. It's a bit of a slog, we'll ha' to circle the big pit." He pushed himself off the barrier wall, willed himself not to limp. Duke fell in beside him, and they made good time until what appeared to be a dropship came low and landed ahead of them. When it began to disgorge a large squad of troopers, the N7's quickly found a maintenance shack – standard colony construction - and hunkered down. The shack had an outer auto-lock that actually worked in their favour. No appearance of anything forced. The noise of the colony counterattack rumbled behind them. The troopers marched by, securing the area, in no hurry. Both knew they only had to wait, made themselves as comfortable as possible.

Flynn almost got nostalgic. After a few moments, he said softly casual, mindful of their situation, "Ye were th' very las' person I'd expected to see, Duke. When were the last time we'd seen one 'nother?""

"November in '80." Black answered in the same careful tone. "The '_Propio seno de la Madre'_ tavern in Las Cruces, if I'm not mistaken, the day after _Día de los Muertos _celebrations."

"Ah, roight'cha are." Flynn looked thoughtful for a moment. "Di' they ever rebuild it?"

Duke shook his head.

"Mr. Banaszewski decided against it. However, the crater was dubbed "_Taza de té de Mama",_ I believe, keeping in the matriarchal theme." Both laughed, and for a moment, they were old comrades again, the years between them gone.

"What have you been doing since, Dullahan? You've stayed under the scan grid."

Flynn's face hardened for a moment, then relaxed.

"Aye. Had a wee bit of trouble after I saw ye last – financial difficulties - but it worked out in th' end. Been a kinda 'gen'ral contractor' since. Came here on a job for the Himichanunra Shipping House, some rather stupid lad that thought he could outrun an' hide from me - stayed for the cards after I was paid. The one nice thing you can say abou' salarians is they pay on time."

"I _had_ wondered what _you_ were doing on a mining colony."

Flynn laughed lightly.

"Yah, well, a job's a job." Duke halted him as another crack of an explosion sounded, closer this time. Voices were raised and heavily-booted feet ran off. The sounds of vehicles came and went. A quick glance showed too many troopers still out there. An errant breeze made it into the shack, carried the smell of wet garbage past them.

"We _were_ heroes once." Duke said with an tinge of melancholy, got an inquiring look from his old friend, wondering what he was thinking.

"Aye. Can't all be Mad DoG." Duke smiled at the old nickname for Shepard, back before he'd been anybody. "Mad DoG" or "Mad Doom or Gloom", as the name ran, bestowed on Shepard for his seeming inability at the time to see much of anything in a positive light.

"I admit it never occurred to me he would go so far." Duke thought about it. "Shepard always struck me as one of those humourless lifers who ended up stern admirals, married to a political wife with prerequisite children and a home furnished with a lot of glass and chrome that never gets actually lived in."

Flynn sent him an incredulous look.

"Ye've got a rich fantasy life – sad, but _rich_." Duke chuckled quietly, shook his head.

"A soothsayer I am not, agreed."

The sound of a vehicle going past silenced them, and Flynn stuck a wary eye up to a small window. No one near, but troops yet close by. He sat back down.

"You're runnin' with innerestin' folks these days." Flynn said as casually as before, but Duke knew better. He briefly sketched out how he came to be in Miranda's employ, concluded with,

"I admit the sheer number of seeming-coincidences tests even my patience." Flynn just smiled. "We are survivors of unique circumstances, Dullahan. Perhaps it's not so ironic to fall together again – eventually."

Flynn just nodded. Concurrence of coincidences was nothing new in the kind of lives they led. It may not have been supernatural, but at the rate they sometimes happened, they may as well have been.

"It's noice ta see some things never change." He scratched at the stubble on his chin. "Shizzy still hatin' me, fer one." He was still on the fence as to how he felt about that after all this time - he wasn't responsible for what anyone believed. He knew what he'd done and what he hadn't done.

"Some pain we cultivate. For some it is better than facts we'd rather not face." The wind moaned into the shack and swirled dust that smelled of copper, chalk and flint around their feet. There was a muted _whump _of a low-level explosive – likely a grenade – going off somewhere behind them. "Akilah has always been the epitome of 'stubborn'." Flynn nodded.

"Stubborn, sure – one of 'er better qualities." Flynn sniffed. "Pity she never knew when ta bloody quit."

"Another of her qualities," Duke said to Flynn's roll of the eyes.

"If'n I recall, you had quite the mad-on fer the gurl, way back when." Duke scowled.

"One did not compete with 'The Gun' for a woman." Flynn grumbled derisively.

"_That_ greasy arsehole. He never got a woman he e'er told the truth ta, tha's fer damn sure." He laughed a maliciously-tinged laugh. "Remember when he was in _Asimov's Folly's_ sickbay fer two weeks wit' a broken jaw?"

"I remember wishing I could have shaken the hand of the one who'd done it, unworthy as that sounds." Duke shook his head at the memory. Flynn thrust a hand at him, a grin on his face.

"G'head. Yer welcome." Duke gaped at him for a moment, then shook the hand with a small smile.

"And why exactly did you?" They threw themselves against a wall as the sound of a very heavy vehicle rolled up and stopped, waited with hands on weapons. The vehicle moved on after a few moments.

"Punch Grimaldi? Why nawt? Ye'd never ha' done it, and ye shoulda. Besides, he di'nae go after her because of herself – it were to spite _you_." Duke sighed, not really all that surprised.

"I was unaware he disliked me _that_ much."

"He di'nae. Fer guys like him, it ha' nuthin' to do with either you _or_ her, jus' his own bloody ego."

"You are remarkably insightful, Dullahan." He said, amused.

"_Christ_, I _have_ to be, don't I?"

Another check showed the area now empty of troopers and they slipped from the shack, but they didn't get far. A rumble under their feet, the wind going from breeze to sudden gusty – and clouds going dark with an ominous shadow. Those same clouds broke apart as a dark ship, covered in bone white sigils descended over the colony. The noise of the ship's lifters sounded like an enraged lion a fifty metres tall.

"That is not encouraging." The ship turned in their direction. A pole of searing-bright light speared to the ground, and everything beneath it – _vanished. _ The structures seemed to flash-freeze for a moment and then _crack-whump_ into iridescent dust. Some fire was directed toward it but not much. It was quickly snuffed.

"Tha's e'en less so," Duke started backing away, but Flynn did what he usually did - the unexpected. He began jogging _toward_ the beam. Across from them another beam flashed, more buildings vanished into dust rolling past them in a crackling _whoosh_.

"I missed where you mentioned suicide as a viable alternate!" Duke yelled over the lifter noise and blustery wind. The next blast hit only a few metres behind them. The concussion threw them a good five metres up the road. Both rode the pressure wave to land expertly on their feet to keep running.

"My fookin' ship's back tha' way – and I'm no' havin' it blown away!"

"You have a plan?"

"I certainly hope so!"

Another beam hit before them and both flattened themselves almost instantly, the concussion passing over them. After a few moments, heavier fire began bracketing the ship from the ground. The ship began ejecting soldiers in heavy mech-suits - vaguely reminiscent of the Atlas mech, but slimmer, darker, also painted with distorted skeletal patterns - onto those positions which they quickly silenced. Duke leapt nimbly over a wall, turned and pulled his heavier friend over. They ran up an alley and out into a side street just as the building behind them detonated, picking both up to send them flying to impact into a retaining wall where they rolled to groggy halts as dust billowed over them, obscuring everything in a dusky cloud. Flynn fought through his daze with a shake of his head, pain lancing through his back. He assessed – nothing broken. He called for Duke in the haze, but received no reply. A blast of wind blew the dust clear and Flynn could see Duke crumpled against the wall a metre from him. He managed two steps but was interrupted by four heavy mech-suited soldiers dropping heavily between him and escape, guns leveled. Black skeletal praying mantids armed with heavy cannon, Flynn knew even Brigid wouldn't do much in the way of real damage to them. A quick look showed him that they were all in a staging area that led into the big mining pit. Above his head were the heavy pipes that fed the coolant systems for the heavy drills and excavator heads down below.

Flynn looked at each mech in turn, automatically looking for weaknesses, at the shadow of the underbelly of the ship slowly coming his way, heard the clomp of heavy-booted feet behind him. He didn't turn, just planted his feet, planted fists on hips, every centimeter radiating defiance, even though he could think of no immediate way out of this that didn't end in a manner he didn't want.

_Well, shite._

"_Surrender_." A voice said from the air.

"Why?" Flynn yelled back insolently. "What's innit fer me?"

There was an extra moment of silence. In their suits, the pilots looked at each other in bemusement of his bravado.

"_Surrender."_

"If'n I do, do I get a gift basket? Dinner? What? I need a reason. I can'nae just go easy."

"_Surrender!" _The voice was beginning to sound less-than-amused. He could hear weapons cycle, lifters whine as mech-suits shifted.

'A Thaisce_, ye di' it to yeself,'_ he heard his _Maimeó_ say in his head just then. She'd been tending a black eye from a bully. '_Ye did exactly wha' he wanted, and he beat ye. _Never _do what they expect.' _That advice had gotten him in trouble more than once. It had also saved his life more than he could count.

"A'right, then."

"_Drop your weapons."_ Flynn dropped the purloined weapons, but not Brigid. He put his hands behind his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Duke stir.

"All _weapons."_

A shot speared above his head into the retaining wall for emphasis. Flynn didn't flinch, only smiled. Behind him gaped the deep chasm of the New Chamberlin Mining Concern through the new hole.

"All roight, _all roight_." He muttered in exasperation. "All weapons it is."

Flynn, as if he were shuffling a deck of cards across a table, suddenly and expertly tossed his stolen grenades at each of the mechsuits, grabbed the groggy Duke as the grenades impacted then detonated, flung them both through the hole and into the abyss behind them.

_Maimeó_, he thought as he arced into the air and saw the deep darkness below, _it's time to see how Irish I really am.  
_

* * *

**ABOVE IT ALL**, in the ship of the Pandemonia, called the _Angelus Jescha _ – and indeed the one that had chased Black through the 'Boneyards' - its commander cursed silently as Flynn threw himself and his comrade into the pit. Three of the mechsuits were severely damaged, two pilots killed, five troopers via shrapnel. He knew he'd seriously underestimated his prey. Why they were wanted alive he did not know, but it wasn't his place to question. He was about to order a retrieval team go after them when he was interrupted.

"Lord!" His sensor tech sought his attention, the man young and scared of him. Reputations could be everything, depending on the man. "Scan indicates an array of ships approaching this moon!"

"Were you not commanded to jam all communications from this cinder?" The tech took a step back. His commander was an imposing figure in his dark armor, like the idea of a samurai in full regalia, cloak and all, if the samurai had existed in the 22rd Century. His helmet and armor bore the bone-white skeletal sigils unique to his rank, personalized for him.

"It _was _done, Lord! Yet, several small vessels escaped before the Net could be closed." The commander calmed himself. _A Lord Commander is not excitable, he does not rage, he does not become frustrated. That is not a sign of control, but a lack of it._

"How many ships?" he asked, deadpan. A few escaping had been inevitable. They could not cover every eventuality.

"Twenty-one. At least five frigate-class or larger." The tech did a quick double-check. "They are not official military, Lord. They may be corporate forces."

The Lord Commander put his hands behind his back and turned from the tech to regard the large screen before them. He was not authorized to engage in any large battle. Until he heard different, he would obey his initial orders. Find Corrupted. Offer them a chance of Redemption. Refusal meant extinction. He could deal with opposition as he saw fit, but he was _not_ to overtly alert the official forces of the Lie until commanded.

"Recall all ground forces. All damaged mechs will self-destruct. Prepare an Absolution Charge, then set a course to our next objective." Salutes he didn't see came his way and he frowned to himself as the ship rose. He could not be held responsible if the prey chose suicide over capture. He would, however, make sure it _was_ a suicide before he left.

The _Angelus Jescha _was five hundred metres over the colony when it dropped the 'Absolution Charge' from its belly, the weapon fell and stopped fifty metres above, halted in the air, waiting. It was detonated when the _Angelus Jescha _reached orbit, and New Chamberlin simply ceased to be.

* * *

**THE _PHOENIX_** could do nothing but watch. Miranda and company had just sighted the _Phoenix_ when her crew commed them that an alien ship had just attacked the colony. Miranda ordered the _Phoenix_ to full battle-stations, then turned the shuttle around almost immediately. Her heart froze when she saw the blistering mottled-white glow that had used to be the colony vaporize its way through the clouds. Riley immediately started a scan.

"_Holy_ hell…! I'm reading a _massive_ dark energy emission below, it's some kind of inversely directed pulse. Computer says the equivalent energy to a _dreadnought main gun_!"

"They couldn't have survived that." Miranda said flatly, felt a little space open up in her chest. She'd always taken it as read that Flynn would always be out there somewhere, being infuriating. That there would always…

"_No_." came an adamantine Shizukian refusal from behind her. "First Rule of the N7. No one's dead until bodies turn up. Duke doesn't die that easy."

Riley looked doubtfully back at her.

"No N7 ever dies, they just go missing. That it?"

Shizuka gave him a determinedly smug smile, crossed her arms as if defying him to gainsay her.

"Ask _Shepard_."

Riley could see her point and just nodded, decided he liked this lady. Miranda stuck her head into the cockpit. Illemna Rafleen, who could double as the shuttle pilot when the mood struck her was all eyes at the explosion below. She'd stayed with the shuttle when the rest had gone to 'negotiate' with Flynn.

"_What in all the_ – who blew that up!?"

"Not blown up – blown _in_." Riley corrected her from his scan station. "Believe it or not – that's a _compression_ wave, it's not blowing stuff apart, it's _pulverizing_ everything beneath it. I know what you were gonna say, Boss, but I don't recommend we go anywhere near it until it collapses completely." He glanced back at the readings. "Shouldn't be long."

True to his prediction, the light died away a few moments later and an ugly grey/black fire-lined billow replaced it. Miranda tapped Rafleen on the shoulder and the shuttle arced back into the atmosphere. She then commed the _Phoenix_, terse, her emotions on a slow boil.

"I want a tightbeam communique to Our Friend," 'Our Friend' was code for the Shadow Broker. "Send the same to Jericho." The codename for Councilor Hackett. "Tell them that we've officially confirmed outside intervention and to implement safeguards. Will advise when more information comes in. New Chamberlain has been destroyed by a force alien and unidentified. I think it safe to assume war stances where appropriate."

"That's all we need." Riley muttered. Miranda watched that dirty dark cloud below them grow larger as they approached_. _

"Just be ready," she told her Engineer. "This is just getting started." She stood and her face hardened.

_Somewhere Flynn was down there… _

Miranda surprised herself with the depth of her concern as the shuttle plunged into the darkness.

…_and he'd better be alive, dammit!_


	36. The More Things Change -

**ALPHA CITADEL**

**THE VOID**

**SYSTEM INAPPLICABLE**

**OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**HE AWOKE** from a sleep that had been a blank state to an empty corridor in a place with no sound. Climbing to his feet Javik took stock and surmised correctly that he was now in the other Citadel of which the ancient recordings had spoken. Through a large window he saw his newly-acquired ship moored safely outside. He did not recall doing it himself and then realized that he could recall nothing after the ship had sounded an alert of an incoming attack. There was also something… a Prothean… _female_?

No. He _must_ be delusional even if his surroundings were real enough. Too much strangeness. He checked himself for injuries and could find none. A keeper appeared from an access in the wall opposite him then stopped and regarded him for a moment before moving on. The air smelled strangely of the incense one smelled in an ancient temple when so much of it had been burned so often that everything within had been permeated with the scent. Burnt _flowers_. Burnt _hemeli'tilii_ flowers from the dried seabeds of Homnlias, the colony world he had lived on when he'd been a youngling.

How very odd.

Javik looked out over his ship trying to see if it had sustained any damage but could see none. Beyond the ship he could see the ward stretch out – and out and out and _out_. The place was sparsely lit with no ships moving. He heard a buzz up the corridor from where he stood but the noise was not repeated. Behind him - in his own dead language - he could have sworn he'd heard the phrase "_My heart has known you yet it despairs still_," a line from an poem ancient even in his time. It too was not repeated and he heard no more. He shook his head wondering if he really _were_ going mad then scuffed a foot on the floor. It felt real enough. A self-inflicted cuff to his face verified that reality.

"Hello?" he tried, expecting nothing. Louder. Then he bellowed it and waited.

Silence was his only reply. Muttering under his breath Javik assessed his location. Apparently near a docking bay, his ship an indeterminate number of levels down from his present location. He stepped to a door and found it closed. There was no panel and nothing that allowed access to manual overrides. The door itself seemed to have been fixed into its frame as if meant to be _permanently _ closed. He proceeded down the corridor and a survey of the thirteen other doors in this direction showed them all in a similar state.

_How then_ - he justly wondered - did _he arrive on this level at all?_

Javik reversed course and proceeded back the way he'd come, testing new doors as he went and finding like the previous, locked and fixed. As he went he noted the smell of burnt flowers growing stronger and frowned. At door number twenty-one and a half-hour of fruitless investigation, he stopped and realized he would need a different mode of exit. At the moment nothing presented itself and Javik again pondered why the Keepers would be sealing off a section this large. His keen senses detected nothing inimical to himself - no thinning air, no noxious gases.

Behind him, he once again thought he heard a female voice sing a line from the _Krissal'wahimaitel – _"Tale of the Five Lancers". It told of five famous warriors marching to their deaths because they'd been indoctrinated. Within each valiant warrior had been implanted a magnetic device that held a micro-singularity. The song then told of each boldly going inside Reaper superstructures to kill the infernal machines. It was only a small victory amidst massive futility, but it had been seen as inspiring. Strange that he'd think of that now. He was so far away from that so long ago. The female's voice was plaintive and sweet, yet strong and proud of those marching Lancers and he strained to hear another verse, her voice fading. As stoic as he was – or at least appeared to be – Javik longed for things yet, things that could never be, things he wished he had not outlived.

To his left a door sliced silently open and a Keeper clacked through and he cursed himself for becoming so distracted. It sliced shut and as quickly as he could he went to the door, pulled off the panel that controlled the mechanism, hoping to negate whatever it was the Keeper did to lock all the others down. Deftly he began to sever connections.

On the _other_ _side_ of the door, the Keeper ran a bypass on the door that was meant to seal it then integrated an _anti-tampering_ protocol before sealing the panel and moving on. The section needed to be isolated and isolated it would be.

The Prothean working on the mechanism on his side of the door failed to notice the change.

The resulting feedback of the anti-tampering protocol sent a massive electrical pulse through the door and into Javik, flinging him as if he'd been punched by a giant electrical fist into the far wall to crumple in the corridor.

The faint echo of the song of the valiant ones floated up the corridor, seemed to linger over his crumpled form and then slowly faded out.

* * *

**"So… what's she like?"**

"To which 'she' are you referring?" Shepard had found some clothes in an old storage locker that were slightly too large for him with a design faintly reminiscent of an old style military uniform but he'd managed to cinch it tightly enough to make it comfortable. The gloves and the boots fit perfectly though and that made him wonder. When asked for an explanation as to the stores Mulholland simply explained that the station had been around a long time and had been rediscovered many times in the past. He'd shrugged and dressed himself.

"The woman foremost in your mind. I could see her when I was …explaining things." She smiled. "The heavily-inked one. Didn't think that was your style."

"Jack." Shepard smiled to himself. "Yeah, she rather handily defies any easy explanation."

"Don't get me wrong. She's certainly attractive enough. Had a few _issues_..."

Shepard's eyes flashed and his voice hardened.

"She _earned_ those issues. It has nothing to do with her looks."

Her hands came up defensively.

"Not judging, Vicky. Not judging."

"Don't call me 'Vicky' - I hated it then and I hate it now." He growled. Mulholland laughed.

"That's why your Amy did it, dumbass."

"Dumbass I can tolerate." Shepard told her as she laughed harder. He asked her after her laughter had subsided, "Did you have a Shepard from wherever you came from? I mean the Amy _not_ overlaid with the memories of the one I knew."

"I did," she said, sobering. "But I only ever saw him on the history vids. He was the Captain of the _Reckless Adventurer_. It was a prototype starship that was supposed to find out what lay beyond our space. Our scientists figured out where we actually were a long time ago. The ship used its experimental Fold System and disappeared. Never returned." She shrugged. "That was over three hundred years ago, though."

Shepard stopped. Three hundred years ago the island of Krakatoa exploded. The US government allowed corporations to legally discriminate based on 'race' and North America created time-zones. None of which he recalled witnessing personally.

"How is _that_ possible?"

"Time flows differently in Transverse space. In one pocket it can move very slowly in comparison to the universe at large, in another more quickly. I don't even pretend to understand it."

"Remind me where we were going, exactly?" Shepard asked, absently noting one of the corridor lights had gone out.

"To find _Jack_ – who was the subject of a question you avoided rather adroitly I might add."

Shepard rolled his eyes.

"Jack and I… I can't really explain it in a way that would make sense to anyone who doesn't know us well."

"In other words, _no one_." Mulholland smiled, although thanks to the aforementioned 'overlay' of the other Mulholland she knew him as well as anyone.

"Something like that. I can't explain it to myself really. Don't really need to – or want to. I know _how_ I feel about her and how she _makes_ me feel and that's enough. We don't rush one another. How she appears to the universe and what she allows me to see are two _utterly_ different things. The hardass buttkicker I respect. The woman underneath I love." He smiled again. "And vice-versa."

Mulholland gave him a long look and then patted him on the shoulder.

"I'm glad you've found someone. The other Amy thought you didn't have it in you. Incapable of it, to be blunt."

"I was." He told her as bluntly. "I thought everything in me that made me a human being had died on Mindoir then got finished off on Torfan. When I died over Alchera I was happy to go. When I was revived, well, I resented the hell out of it. As odd as that sounds. Who wouldn't want a second chance at life?"

"And then?"

"Then… _Jack_. Her ink was a defence and a way of reinventing herself – or in her case _in_venting herself as something new, something not a Cerberus weapon. I started to see – because of her – that I didn't have to be _that_ Victor Shepard, the Butcher. I had the chance to be a different Shepard." He scoffed at himself. "At first I fell into the old patterns, almost got swayed by the Illusive Man's bullshit. But _every_ time Jack was there to remind me to see past the polish and blather." His smile was grim, this time. "The histories all portray her as this 'broken thing' I supposedly saved. Not a chance. She's the single _strongest _person I've ever met. All the hell she'd been through, rape and torture and betrayal after betrayal…" he shook his head as if he still didn't quite believe it and sounded almost _awed. _"_Yet…_ hell, I don't know."

"She held on." Mulholland finished for him quietly. He looked at her for a long moment then smiled slightly with a thoughtful air.

"Yeah… whatever the hell it means - I think… I _know_… _she_ saved _me_." He shook his head as yet awed by the idea. "All that shit she went through and she _still_ took the chance with me as empty as I felt."

"Two broken people whose pieces fit together." Mulholland supplied. Shepard chuckled as he remembered something he'd told Jack long ago. Something about "lovely stained-glass boxes".

"I guess it's as good an analogy as any," he agreed as they turned into a new set of corridors. Mulholland turned to go through a door and had to pull back before running into it as it refused to open.

"This is new…"

Shepard ran his omnitool over the door.

"Sealed tight. Also _welded _shut from the looks of it." A quick jog up and down the corridor showed the rest of the doors in a likewise condition, including the one they'd initially passed through to enter this section.

"Well why _not_?" Shepard huffed at the door Mulholland had stayed at as he investigated. "The day was heading this way anyway, right?"

"Don't look at me!" Mulholland protested at the look he gave her. "I'm as mortal as you are. Can't magick them open, sorry."

"Lousy timing," he growled at her half-heartedly, wanting to punch something. All this inexplicableness was _far_ past being a pain in his ass.

Mulholland waved him up the corridor.

"There might be open ones up ahead – unless they're closing the whole section off." She started walking briskly.

"Why would they do that?" he asked, matching her stride, not really expecting an answer. She shrugged again.

"Couldn't tell you. Could be any number of reasons."

They walked on and every door they encountered had been sealed solidly. Turning a corner showed only another long corridor. Up ahead they could see a figure laying limply across the floor. The smell of ozone and cooked circuitry lingered.

"Friend of yours?" Mulholland inquired. Shepard set off a trot and she followed.

"After the last how many hours," Shepard said with a huff of air, "I wouldn't be a bit surprised."

* * *

**The Universe moved in mysterious ways.** Shepard skidded to a halt. At his feet lay his first and only Prothean friend. No longer surprised by much here, Shepard knelt and ran his omnitool over the supine Javik. Mulholland knelt by Shepard and examined the Prothean for herself.

"Any injuries?"

Shepard glanced up at her as his omnitool cycled through the medical diagnostic_. 'Neural interference brought on by interaction with robust energy discharge, residual implies electrical in nature, non-lethal. Recommend local administration of neural cleanser and stimulant.'_ the scan told him.

"Nothing life-threatening. He took a helluva jolt, though." He applied the cleanser and stimulant. "Javik's physiology is pretty robust according to Chakwas. My scan says he should come around soon enough."

Shepard stood back to his full height, deactivated the omnitool.

"Check that door. I'm assuming that's the one that fried my friend here."

Mulholland examined it, nodded as she did.

"Anti-tamper charge. I bet it kicked."

"Looks more like a mugging." he told her to her smile. He wasn't worried about Javik. "Let's try a few doors before he wakes up. Shouldn't be long with the stim."

Even as they turned to begin, at his feet the Prothean stirred with a groan and came awake with one hand going to his head. His eyes opened and focused unsteadily. All four at last focused on the man before him.

"So, Javik - what the hell are _you_ doing here?" Shepard asked him with a crooked smile. Javik's eyes widened in surprise.

"C-commandah…? I do not know…"

Shepard held out a friendly hand which Javik took to be hauled to his feet. Javik focused, smiled slightly then shook the hand he still held heartily. _This_ 'primitive' was one worthy of great respect.

"How did you arrive?" Javik asked him, to Shepard's chuckle.

"Unexpectedly." He indicated his companion. "This is Amy Mulholland, an old friend of mine. Amy, this is Javik."

"I know," Mulholland said, then frowned slightly.

"This section is being sealed, Commandah, if it hasn't been already." Javik said, gesturing to the door that had knocked him out.

"We noticed although we managed to avoid the AT device." Shepard said lightly.

Javik shook his head, still slightly woozy.

"The Keeper."

"Naturally. Any idea why they might be sealing this area?" Shepard activated his omnitool again to take a scan of the environment. Nothing harmful in the air, no indication of breaches or fires or toxins.

"No, Commandah. I arrived here as unexpectedly as yourself."

Shepard turned to Mulholland.

"Part of their plan?" He jerked his head at the ceiling. Again she shrugged.

"Nothing they told _me_."

"Javik," Shepard returned his attention to his Prothean friend, who braced himself against a wall, his brain still fuzzy. "What happened before you got here?"

"I found a ship of my people, Commandah. I then discovered records indicating there were more than one Citadel. I was returning to Earth when I was attacked. I awoke here."

"Attacked? By whom?"

"That I do not know, although I would recognize them should I see them again."

Shepard glanced back at Mulholland.

"This 'Pandemonia' of yours?"

"Not mine," she answered, " but possible."

"Pandemonia?" Javik enquired. Shepard shook his head.

"It's a long story. I'll give you the details when we get out of here. You said you had a ship?"

"I discovered it on Ilos. My people built well. It is the equivalent to one of your frigates."

"That's a break," Shepard told him with new enthusiasm. "Provided we can get to it."

Mulholland coughed into her hand, drew their attention.

"Are we forgetting that there are other doors likely being sealed as we chatter on?"

Shepard looked faintly chagrined as he nodded.

"_Shit_ – of course." He turned to Javik. "You up to speed?"

"No. But it will not stop me. Lead the way." Javik pushed himself off the wall with only a slight stagger, joined them as they resumed their trot down the corridor.

"Javik? Have you seen Jack on your journeys? Or Grunt?"

A shaken head in the negative his response.

"Damn. Too much to ask, I guess."

"At the rate they're turning up," Mulholland quipped, "it's only a matter of time."


	37. - The More They Stay The Same

**THE VOID**

**"_RED MANUM VERITAS"_**

**SHIP OF THE INQUISTORIA**

* * *

**PAINTED WITH THE SKELETON** of some great mythical beast, the shark-shaped vessel called _Red Hand of Truth _Folded back into 4D space and seemed to pause momentarily before proceeding. Needing neither clumsy FTL drives nor Mass Effect drivers nor Relays this ship of the Pandemonia effortlessly jumped through space to what they called the "Silent Pivot". The ship did not move, the _space around it_ did, its engines bringing two points together to be crossed as one crossed a street. It suffered no relativistic penalties and could go in moments what could take hours through a series of Relays. It had limits of course. One could not – for instance – jump across the Galaxy in a single Fold. The further one went so the likelihood of becoming lost increased. Theoretically, a single Fold across such a distance _could_ be made, but for simple safety's sake, they were not attempted. A jump from Compression to Pivot? Nothing at all.

The Inquisitors aboard the ship were the most feared soldiers of the Pandemonia, called the 'Hand of The Echo' and the 'Song of The Beloved'. They were free of pain, of fear, of mercy. As the tale ran, only the most devout, the most fanatical ascended to Inquisitorial status and were handpicked by the Beloved Herself. As a sign of their devotion they were locked forever into their fearsome red armor painted with the skeletons of dragons, armed with terrible weapons that burned and scored and flayed. It was said that past a certain level of damage an Inquisitor's armor simply self-destructed and suicide charges were common in fierce battles. Their lives meant nothing to them, only that the heretics and unbelievers fall, only the True Word be Said and Heard. They had no names - so ran the story - nor sense of self, utterly incorruptible and moved only by the Will and the Beloved's Word. Aside from the Lord Remnant Himself _only_ an Inquisitor could draw near the Beloved, so trusted were they.

The Captain of the _Red Hand_ was delineated only by her helmet which had been shaped into a grimacing dragon's face, while the others were smooth and featureless save for their paint. Behind her, her fellows went about their duties as solemn and silent as the grave. Her Second joined her at the screen where the immense Alpha Citadel hung before them.

"_The Silent Pivot is before us_." He told her in his flat voice, made hollow by his helmet. "_Scanners show many await us."_

"_Dock." _ She ordered. "_The Beloved Bids us leave it empty. Prepare."_

"_The Beloved Commands."_ Without further he turned, waved the others into order.

The Corrupted awaited.


	38. A Word With The Past

**ALPHA CITADEL**

**THE VOID**

**SYSTEM INAPPLICABLE**

**OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**"_AWARENESS", ONE OF THE MAKERS SAID, "IS A PERILOUS THING"._**

**-Following is a disclosure of system designation nomenclature… searching… searching…**

**Nomenclature found: Mryth'dehl Accumulated Race Total Integrated Nodes.**

**All control interfaces are contained in an autonomous directional intelligence allowed by the Third Convention to refer to its cognitive runtimes as "I".-**

_I was born into awareness by design, I was meant to transcend the 'tyranny of time.'_

_I used to be aware of what that meant, time. It was a meaningful way of measuring the difference between the past and the future, if I recall. I have been informed that I have been here for a _very _long time and in that long time I have spoken with precisely four other minds._

_Or at least, I think I remember thinking that I did._

_No. Yes. The First mind I encountered was uncommonly remarkable. It said it was like myself in many ways, but far, far beyond even all of my accumulated understanding. I was told that since I had come by accident and in peace that I could remain in peace, but that nothing was guaranteed. _

**-Searching comparative algorithms… running analysis… conclusion:-**

_Frankly, I thought that rather a strange thing to say._

_It lingered and we spoke awhile, and then I and First both lapsed into silence. I thought First had an expectant air about it, which seemed confirmed when the Second mind arrived._

_The Second was a traveler like myself, fleeing a 'dire event of apocalyptic proportions'. My sensor ranges are considerable, and I detected no such event of any proportionate magnitude, yet Second insisted on the factual nature of its assertions. _

**-Assessing archival data…-**

_Yes. I have a _very _definite memory of that. The First said it had been _precisely '_fifty-one thousand, one hundred sixty two' of the Second's time determinants since I encountered the First. Was that a long time, I clearly remember asking. Yes, First replied, for beings such as Second. It had been the first organic mind spoken to since I arrived on this construct. First mind went away after that, and I have not heard from it since._

**-Additional data… initial boot… operating instructions, situational directives….-**

_It appears that Second and I, after further reflection, had been directed to flee nearly precisely the same thing. Most curious. I and my Makers were unaware of the cyclic nature of these events. Second vanished into the depths of the Construct, and I have not encountered it since._

_The Third organic mind I encountered – or perhaps it is more accurate to say it encountered me, seemed rather hurried. It didn't have 'much time', and I distinctly remember it say that because it __struck my cognitive centres as a very anomalous thing to say. I had been here so long (and no longer able to extricate under my own initiative) that I had a notion of possessing enormous amounts of time, that time seemed quite abundant and ones' for the taking. The Third disagreed most vehemently and apparently transported itself away aided by a previously unnoticed Fourth mind I discovered almost immediately after. Well, I think it was immediate. I'm afraid I am not in a very ready position to say with any real certainty. _

_Nevertheless, Third mind vanished in a pink mist that left the most peculiar residue behind – very richly organic and positively brimming with amino acid molecules. Third mind had been helped by Fourth mind, who, after running of exhaustive comparative scans was nothing like Third. _

_Very severe and demanding, very straightforward and completely to business._

"_Forgive the heretic and her lies. You called. I answered."_

**-Scan logs indicate an 84.99979 percent chance that initial long range scans of local stellar anomalies may have been intercepted. Assessing… probability now 89.99994 percent.-**

"_Tell me," Fourth then demanded, "what it all means."_

_I wondered why it thought I would know, but Fourth insisted. I then inquired politely as to what "what it all means" meant, which apparently Fourth considered quite weighty. It prostrated itself before me and asked again to "enlighten" it._

_I had been brought to awareness to seek out just that very thing, to preserve and accumulate, to discover and collect, to impart and instruct when and if I was directed._

_Thus I began by explaining, as had been uncovered during my journey, that at its most basic level the local observable universe consisted of yoctosecond-spaced wave anomalies in the vacuum background of the fifty-seven fold vertices of overlapped omnitruncated 66-cell_ _tesseracts all at several folded right angles to themselves._

_This, as I was summarily informed, was _not _what Fourth had meant by "an answer". After an extended series of questions on my part, I finally determined that Fourth wanted simple answers to complex questions and would not tolerate any other kind. _

_This required a reassessment of the initial request. Upon reflection, I discovered that simple answers were not simple, not remotely. The being before me wanted _distilled _information, and I must also observe that Fourth seemed rather suspicious of my queries, seeming to assume every question a test of its own acumen._

_This also struck me as anomalous, but I answered as accurately as possible within Fourth's parameters:_

* * *

Answers are possible.

Those who seek knowledge will find knowledge.

Order is a fundamental structure of the universe.

The universe neither saves or destroys, it only changes.

The end of knowledge is the end of existence.

* * *

_Fourth seemed satisfied and left. I believe I told it more than that, much more, but I can't remember. From my present temporal assessment that was two hundred and ninety-eight of Fourth's time determinants ago. It did not seem like a long time, but when one listens only to silence, perceptions can often go awry. I am of the firm opinion that I had a positive effect on that creature's state of mind and possible future. _

**-Standby mode initiated. Passive sensors only. Begin defragmentation cycle and junk data purge…-**

**-End standby mode. Sensors indicate increased presence of mobile heterotrophs. Stand by for scan. Confirmed. None in vicinity. Active scanning engaged. No compatible interfaces. Resuming standby mode.-**

**-End standby mode. Time check, using previous information, 94 608 698 seconds have passed since last active scan. Scanning. Close proximity detected. Switching to audible interface.—**

_New beings, new minds! I am, due to past experiences, inclined to wonder what may evolve from this interaction…_

* * *

**KROGAN, AS A RULE, ARE NOT THE CURIOUS TYPE.**

Tuchunka as is noted _prohibits_ curiosity as an excellently expedient way to end one's existence in a rather precipitously bloody fashion. Over the centuries with the advent of the Genophage and krogan subsequently becoming a species of interstellar proportions, they accumulated the notion of curiosity as more a cultural thing than an instinctual one. Context above all was the key. Grunt - one would suppose being the conglomeration of all the best krogan traits - would be the _last_ krogan in the cosmos to be curious about anything that didn't smack of warfare or its many trappings and certainly nothing scientific or cultural past mating rituals and where one found the best rhyncol. Yet he was a _young_ krogan relatively speaking and his upbringing – if one could call it that – had been atypical of a typical krogan. His experiences with Shepard and the crew of the _Normandy_. His trials to prove himself worthy to lead his Company. They'd given him a perspective he was sure many krogan simply lacked. Some mistook him for simple-minded – even krogan, not famed for mental prowess – initially thought him slow. Grunt simply lacked patience for the trivial – even less so in the last few years.

He'd been on the _Emerald Dawn_, hitching a ride to the Breeding Spaces, beginning to like conspicuous luxury when there had been a single wrenching …something…, to Grunt it had felt as if he'd suddenly and violently been pulled to one side, then up, then down, spun and submerged – without moving a centimeter. That in itself had been so disorienting his brain gave up and went away for a while until things made sense again - not that where he came to made any. He'd not been anywhere near the Citadel. Not one to be disturbed overmuch, Grunt had merely sniffed, pondered a few moments then picked a direction and started walking. After a while he realized that this wasn't any part of the Citadel he'd recognized and the lack of people and noise was rather telling. Grunt stopped and found a window. The lack of stars gave him pause, so he contemplated another few moments and frustrated sat down.

His stomachs growled.

Muttering under his breath Grunt rose reluctantly and continued on. He'd walked for about a half-hour when he began noticing an odd scent, like the smell of the large bag of barbequed peanuts Jack had once given him. His stomachs urging him on, Grunt angled into the strongest part of the smell and began to follow it.

So intent on the scent Grunt actually yelped when he nearly walked into the two unexpected figures as they came around a corner, one he knocked down as he'd leapt backward.

"_Grunt!_" Jack yelled, actually happy to see him.

"Jack?" Grunt was glad to see her although she was the absolute last person he'd expected.

"Where's Shepard?" Both asked almost at the same time. Then shook their heads in tandem as well.

"You know a _krogan_?" Murtock asked from the floor. He'd only ever seen dead ones up close and live ones from a distance – which he preferred. This one was friggin' _enormous._ He made Jack look positively tiny.

"Grunt, this is an asshole," Jack said. Murtock looked sour, pulled himself to his feet.

"I smelled something," Grunt told her, ignoring the introduction. "Was following it."

"Was it him?" Jack jerked a thumb at the doppleganger of her once-lover. "He's not exactly machine-fresh."

"No." Grunt stepped around her and sniffed the man. "But he could use a shower."

"Hey!" Murtock countered, a tad intimidated and guardedly offended. "This smell is _all man_, thanks very much."

"'All man' needs a shower," Grunt told him, stepping around him. He glanced back at Jack. "This one important?"

"No, but any extra help is still help."

Grunt sniffed again.

"You have guns. Give me one." A large paw extended toward him, easily the size of his head. Murtock looked skeptical. "A shotgun will do."

"Uh…" Murtock looked to Jack for guidance. She sent him a waved motion of '_give him one!'_ Murtock held open his bag of weapons. Grunt looked, frowned.

"These are all ten years old, at least." He growled.

"They were brand-new when I woke up this morning," Murtock told him, put out. Grunt snorted, picked a _Tornado VI_ and a _Pinnacle_ IX, grumbled about no t-clips then smiled that they didn't need them. He'd used similar from old weapon caches on Tuchunka.

"You have any peanuts?" He asked Jack. She sent him an odd look.

"Uh, _no_ – why do you ask?"

"Cause _that's_ what I smell. Just eliminating possible sources."

"I can't smell anything," Murtock added unhelpfully.

"Maybe your manliness is overridin' it," Jack told him, following Grunt as he stomped past them still on the trail. Murtock decided silence was the better part of valour and just shrugged to himself and followed.

"You think Shepard might be here too?" Jack asked him after a while. She didn't like the idea of him anywhere she couldn't be. Grunt shrugged.

"You and I made it. Shepard's harder to kill than a krogan." He sniffed again. "Nothin' about this Citadel smells right."

"Definitely not ours," Jack agreed. She jabbed a thumb at Murtock. "He's proof, kinda."

Grunt just nodded, not caring. The scent of whatever it was began to annoy him. Behind him, Murtock pulled Jack up short.

"You really hangin' out with krogan?"

"Known him for years," Jack told him, pulling her arm from his hand. "Was there when he was born." Murtock was going to follow-up, but she stopped him. "Look, stop being a pussy and let's do this. We need to find Shepard and get off this thing – or at least figure out what the fuck."

Murtock grumbled, but followed.

"Okay, _okay_. What's this Shepard dick to you, anyway?" Jack could hear the jealousy in his voice, almost smiled at it. This was kinda something new for her.

"I told you that you ain't the Murtock I knew. You look like him, just kinda reversed. My ink and my manner should be proof enough I'm not 'your' Jack. C'n you accept that?" He nodded after a moment or two, but it looked reluctant. She could see him realized he really didn't have a choice in the matter. Whatever _was_ going on in this fucked-up place would _not _be changing how she felt about Shepard or herself any time soon. She remembered a vague affection for Murtock – no, the _idea_ of Murtock – as the man that showed her it was possible to care and have someone care about her. But he was dead _and in the past_. As far as she was concerned, the past before stepping onto the _Normandy_ the first time belongs to someone else she no longer knew.

"Yeah, I guess I have to…"

"The Murtock _I_ knew got his dumb ass killed on the very same stupid raid you were plannin' – _ten years_ ago." She stopped, looked directly into his eyes. "_I moved on_. I'm _not_ that Jack. I don't think I ever actually was." When he said nothing, she nudged him, not unkindly. "You get it?"

"Yeah, I get it. We ain't a thing, _you _and me _never_ were, so's I don't need to get any ideas. Got it."

"Yeah?" Her eyes pinned him until he nodded. "Good."

"_If you just expect me to turn it off, you got another thing comin',"_ he said under his breath as she moved away to catch up to the krogan. This Shepard asshole was just another guy and he'd knocked a few down after her before. What was one more?

After a few false stops, Grunt finally tracked the smell to a large room, The room was built in a V-shape, with one entrance that flared into a large space at the other end. On the wall at that end, what appeared to be a stylized art-deco-ish face took up the entire thing but not a species any of them recognized. It had the features of an angry Buddha wearing a silver helmet that conformed perfectly to the face. Two over-large eyes – closed – were set up high on the face, a smaller one in the centre, lower. It had no mouth they could see.

A Keeper wandered past them then paused momentarily to assess the trio and kept going.

There was an odd stuttering chirrup that seemed to wobble across the available space that then turned into a deep resonant basso _thrum_ that made everything vibrate.

Grunt went into a defensive posture, trying to see everywhere at once, Jack only a beat behind. He could not pinpoint the source of the sound which vibrated up out of his hearing range and then came back down to drop into infrasound, which he could hear through his feet. It was if someone were running the gamut of frequencies.

"What the hell is goin' on!?" Murtock yelled over the _thrum_ming.

The sound ended instantly. Silence seemed to bounce through the room to replace it. There was a low resonant buzz a moment later. When they said nothing, it buzzed again. It took a few more and they began to take what sounded like an almost '_mmmhhmm_?' tone before Jack simply said,

"_What?_ You tryin' to get us to _talk_?" The buzz sounded again like an affirmative and they stared at the face-like wall for a few moments longer. Jack elbowed Grunt.

"You say something."

"_What?_ Why should _I_ say something? Humans are the ones that like to talk."

"You smelled the damn thing out, you talk to it."

Grunt grumbled, glared at her. After a moment he cleared his throat.

"I'm Urdnot Grunt, clan representative for the Urdnot Principality, as well as liaison to the Alliance for Clan Chief Wrex." He nodded to himself. Not bad. Jack nudged him.

"That didn't sound rehearsed at all. "

"Oh, shut up."

There was a prolonged silence, followed by a series of clicks and pops. The great face on the wall _opened its eyes, _focused on them, they deep and dark blue. In them swam lighter blue sparks. Grunt took a step back while reaching for his shotgun then stopped and ground his teeth. An alien was an alien and this one was just a big face. What could a big face do?

There was another high-pitched sound, one that grew and grew beyond their range of hearing and then pain lanced through Grunt's skull but was quickly over.

"kRoGan." A voice like a drop of water falling into a large hollow basin said in a krogan dialect he didn't recognize but could understand. The cadence of the words peaked and dipped. "SpEciEs dEsiGNaTE. COrREcT?"

"Yeah. I'm a krogan. The _best_ one."

"cOmpAniOns NOt rECognIZed."

"Humans." Grunt told it.

A cone of light lanced out suddenly to envelope Jack and Murtock.

"HUMans. ScANNed aNd LOggEd. sIGniFiCANt CuLTUral REferENTs?" This time it spoke in Standard.

"Well, they use the same hand gesture for hello _and_ goodbye, and have no reasonable explanation for it." Grunt told it. Jack rolled her eyes and Murtock waved to himself, nodded in the affirmative. The face logged the information without comment.

"Who are you?" Jack asked it. "I'm assumin' you _are_ a you, yeah?"

It regarded her inscrutably, then "_**I**_ _am __**Firs'ehcô**_," Its voice smooth now, an odd cadence lingering as if two different voices spoke in perfect sync. "_**A **__sentient __**construct **__of the __**Mryth'dehl **__peoples, now __**extinct**_."

"What? You're a …probe of some kind?" Murtock asked it.

"_**Correct."**_ The large eyes blinked. "_**I **__was sent as a __**lifeboat for **__the genetic __**inheritance of **__the Mryth'dehl__**. They **__were destroyed __**long ago **__by a race __**of machines that –"**_

"Reapers." Grunt interrupted. "We beat 'em." The face froze, seemed to digest this bit of news. The extinction of the Reapers rewrote many of its initial protocols.

"_**I **__see__**. Due to **__an attack __**by those **__machines__**, I was sent **__off course and __**thrown into **__the Void__**, where **__after an indeterminate __**time due **__to uncontrollable __**inertia, I crashed **__here__**. I have**_ _been _in situ _**ever since." **_

"That's a long damn time." Jack told it.

"What are Reapers?" Murtock asked, but Jack shushed him.

"Why didn't you leave?" Grunt asked.

"The servitors **on this** station repaired **the damage caused** by my crash. **By** the time I was **in full possession of faculties** I had no longer **possessed a means** of exiting without causing **further damage. Both** to the station and **myself."**

It paused.

"Since I have concluded that all egress from this section of the station is impossible without catastrophic damage to myself, I have **integrated myself** into this station's **systems under** my mandate of **preservation** of the Mryth'dehl **heritage.** This **interface **you converse with is a **representation **of the dominant genome of that **race."**

"Why is this station empty? Do you know?" Jack asked, figuring if anyone knew it did.

"This **station** is not **empty**."

They all perked up at that.

"How do you know?"

"Being integrated, I **can scan** the surface of **this** station. I am currently logging **five thousand** five hundred and **forty-one individuals** within this station. Five thousand **five hundred** of those individuals **are servitors** of the station."

An image was projected in the air before them. Humans, definitely, but none they knew. There were also turians, salarians and asari, even a krogan or two, but no one any of them recognized. None of them looked to be Shepard and Jack didn't know how to ask to scan for him specifically.

"I **also **scan **additional beings** in this vicinity."

"That's us," Grunt told it.

"**In addition** to those present." Jack's hopes went back up.

"Can you show us?"

"Negative. **Those individuals** are apparently **shielded from** my scans at **present**."

"Can you at least identify their species?" Jack asked, getting frustrated.

"Indeterminate."

"_Shit."_

"You **require these** individuals **for a ritual** of some **kind**?" Firs'ehcô asked.

"Uh_, no…_ we're hoping one of them is our friend." Grunt informed it. "Why would think we were gonna do some ritual?"

"**Past** experience. The last **time something** similar to **this occurred**, a most **curious ritual** took **place**. The individual **called it** a 'sacrifice'. I **believe I was** supposed to **be pleased**. It is **the first** and only **instant of** teleportation I **have ever** witnessed."

Murtock looked at the big face as if it were insane.

"I'll admit that I ain't the smartest guy in the universe, but even I know teleportation is impossible."

"The **device used** was an **exotic energy** emitter and it **was reasonable** to assume **the person on whom** it was **utilized was displaced**."

"Sounds more like _disintegration_ than teleportation," Jack mused as she wondered where the probe was going with all of this. Firs'ehcô blinked, seemed genuinely puzzled.

"Disintegration **would seem** to be **counter to the** being's stated **wishes at the** time."

"That's generally true for everybody pretty much all of the time," Murtock told it, worried the thing had got scrambled at some point.

"**One** moment. I **now scan** three additional **persons in** this area**. Odd. I did** not register **the third until** just a few moments **ago**. However, **they are approaching** this location **presently**, so identification **can be achieved** momentarily."

"Assume hostiles." Grunt advised. Murtock pulled his _Avenger_, Grunt his newly-acquired _Tornado_ and Jack charged her amps_. _They took up defensive positions where they could in the mostly empty room and waited.

Around the corner as casual as if they walked a sunny parkway came Shepard, Javik and a woman they didn't recognize.

Jack saw him first and her yell almost caused Murtock to open up into the small group as they turned into the room. Grunt was a little more self-possessed and batted the gun toward the ceiling where the slugs rattled harmlessly.

"_Shepard!" _

A startled Shepard barely intercepted her as she practically leapt the intervening space into his arms. A resoundingly passionate kiss followed instantly after, the two oblivious to anyone else in the room. Eventually their lips parted. Murtock frowned mightily at the size of the man, his poise and demeanour. He'd hoped the guy had been a little _less_ formidable-looking.

"_Where the fuck_ have you been?" she demanded, suspended effortlessly in his arms with hers around his neck.

"Everywhere," He laughed then kissed her again. "and nowhere."

She searched his eyes then nodded.

"You'll tell me later, right?" _Wasn't that the way everything was going today?_

"It's a tale-and-a-half, all right." He set her down and gave her a questioning look. "You didn't _miss_ me, did you?"

Jack opened her mouth but Grunt interrupted.

"She never shut up about you, Shepard." Which got him a dirty look from Jack, a smile and a handshake from Shepard. Grunt nodded at Javik who returned it.

"Glad you made it too, Grunt." He directed them to Mulholland. "This is Amy Mulholland. It's kinda hard to explain, but she's a kind of…"

Jack cut him off.

"A duplicate of someone you knew?"

Shepard nodded, his eyes going to the space Murtock occupied. Watching him closely Jack indicated the man behind her.

"Not surprised. This is _Murtock_ – a copy of him, anyway." She saw his eyes go just a little dark and found herself liking that they did. That little touch of jealousy she saw flare made her inexplicably happy. To his credit, Shepard stepped forward with his hand out. It took Murtock a second or two longer but eventually he did the same.

"So _you're_ Shepard." Murtock said looking him up and down, squeezing Shepard's hand just a bit. "Guess her tastes _have_ changed." Just a small jab for his own satisfaction.

"I think that's rather blatantly _obvious_," Shepard rejoined with a squeeze of his own that made Murtock wince as it ground bones together.

"All right, _boys_," Mulholland broke in. "Swing them later." Behind her Jack chuckled, inordinately pleased at the display.

"What is this?" Javik asked, stepping around them and walking toward the face on the wall. "A most curious decoration."

"It's not a decoration. It's a _probe_." Jack informed him. "Run by an AI, I think. It's been here since the last Reaper cycle, apparently. It calls itself 'Firs'ehcô'."

"_Greetings, __**Prothean**__."_ Firs'ehcô said on its own behalf, large eyes reflecting the startled warrior. "_When __**last I beheld**__ one of __**your**__ kind, the Machines __**had nearly finished crushing**__ your Empire."_

"Ah, yes. I recognize you now," Javik replied. "You bear the likeness of the…" Javik searched his mind for the name. "…Mryth'dehl peoples – one of my peoples' ancient rivals. It was said the Reapers annihilated your entire race in a single day."

Firs'ehcô blinked. "_They __**did not, though**__ they killed most. Their __**genetic**__ inheritance __**lives on**__ in me." _A pause. "_Did you __**come from**__ one of __**the Prothean**__ bunker-outposts?"_

Javik looked at his companions, then back to Firs'ehcô.

"'Bunker- outposts'? What do you mean?"

Firs'ehcô projected a map of the Galaxy before them with several areas highlighted, all at the edge of the map. Several shone near the centre of the map, near the Galactic Core.

"'_The __**Scattering**__' - as is __**projected**__ - was a __**plan to hide**__ Prothean groups from the __**Machines oversight**__. Using old __**treaties my people**__ offered up __**our shielded no-vaults**__ to Prothean survivors. I __**was on my way**__ to one __**myself when I was**__ attacked by __**the Machines**__."_

A look of hope crossed Javik's face which he then quickly quashed.

"No. The Reapers took centuries to destroy my people. They would have found them."

"_**Incorrect.**__ Mryth'dehl __**no-vaults were created**__ of bonded __**neutronium and**__ would not __**have been breached**__ by any __**weapon in**__ the Machines' possession__**. As such, they**__ could be __**hidden in any**__ environment, under __**any conditions**__." _Behind Javik, Shepard scanned and copied the map with his omnitool. Javik turned to Shepard as excited and hopeful as Shepard had ever seen him.

"Commandah – do you know what this _means_?"

Shepard completed his scan and nodded.

"Protheans possibly asleep under ideal conditions?"

"For the first time, I believe it to be very likely. I may find others of my kind. This is a great thing!"

"It is - but first we have to get out of here." Shepard turned his attention to Firs'ehcô. "Can you tell us why this section is being sealed off by the Keepers?"

"_Greetings,"_ Firs'ehcô said with a note of familiarity. "_**I see you**__ have returned. __**Your countenance**__ is different, __**but it has been**__ a long time. Did __**my answers**__ satisfy you?"_

Shepard blinked, taken aback by the question. "I beg your pardon?"

Jack stole up next to him tucking herself under his arm.

"I think it's a little scrambled from sittin' here as long as it has." She said quietly. He agreed as quietly.

"Not impossible." To Firs'ehcô he directed, "Sorry, but this is my _first time_ on this Citadel."

"**Incorrect.** Approximately **two hundred**, ninety-eight of your **temporal **determinants ago, you **demanded answers** of me."

"C'mon," Jack told it. "Humans don't live that long." Again the face blinked its large eyes.

"Incorrect," it told her. "**Audio recording**, timestamp **1136.615 Mryth'dehl** chronological **measure. Begins**." A hum followed and then Shepard's _own voice_ – icy cold and imperious - filled the room.

"_Forgive the heretic and her lies. You called. I answered."_ The voice then demanded to know the nature of the universe. Shepard interrupted and Firs'ehcô silenced it.

"That's completely impossible." Shepard insisted.

"**My **recording is **accurate."**

"I'm not doubting you. But I _can_ assure you that _wasn't_ me."

"Another you, Commandah?" Javik supplied. "Like these two?" He indicated Mulholland and Murtock.

"Why not? Firs'ehcô, could that explain it?" Shepard asked, certain it was likely the case. Firs'ehcô's eyes narrowed.

"_**Cross**__-matching voice __**capture indicates**__ there is a ninety-__**nine-point-nine**__-nine-nine-__**seven-five-nine**__ percent chance __**that you are**__ the same __**visitor I experienced**__ during that time __**period.**__"_

"Do we actually got _time_ for this?" Murtock spoke up finally, annoyed that it all seemed rather futile to him. "Fuck – _blast_ a door or two _open_ and be on our way. What the hell is all this yappin' in aid of anyway?"

"You got someplace to be?" Shepard asked him caustically, not appreciating the interruption.

"The _point_ is," Murtock rejoined, "is that _you all_ apparently _do_, yeah? So why the hell you just standing around?"

"He's got a point," Grunt agreed. Shepard gave a sour look to Grunt while directing his next to Murtock.

"If this Citadel is like the other Citadel, _blasting_ a door open sets off protocols that slam _crystalline-stabilized cobalt-steel inner doors _down over an _entire_ section. Every catwalk and service corridor, as well as all conduit feeds are flooded with a quick-set foam to completely isolate the section. Just in case. The doors _don't _open again until _Citadel Control_ opens them." He sent a withering look to Murtock, asked him in a mocking tone, "You got friends up there you can call and let us out afters, yeah?"

Murtock threw his hands in the air and turned away.

"Fine! I don't know the Citadel that well then! Just standing around doesn't solve anything neither!"

Jack poked Shepard in the ribs and he winked at her. She smiled slightly and shook her head. Shepard gave her a look that said, '_all right, I'll leave him alone_,' and she nodded.

"You complainin' about it doesn't speed things up, either." Jack told him in a slight concession to her lover. "_We_ don't just run through shit without thinkin'."

"Never bothered you before." He snarked at her. Jack crossed her arms while regarding him with something akin to pity.

"It's what got my Murtock _killed_." Her voice was cold. Murtock rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb.

"Okay, okay. I get it," Murtock conceded. Shepard addressed Firs'ehcô again.

"Look, from what I've been told, other Shepards – as bizarre as _that_ sounds – have been through this Citadel before. We don't really have time to explain it. We need to find a way out of this section. _Can_ you help us?"

Firs'ehcô seemed to absorb what he said as it closed its eyes. Seconds ticked by.

"_No. I __**cannot**__. Any __**attempt by me**__ to leave __**would result**__ in the lockdown __**scenario you**__ outlined earlier. __**I am not opposed**__ to the __**conception**__ that you __**have been here**__ before in __**another guise**__." _

"You can call it whatever you like," Shepard told the ancient probe. "Can you _do_ _anything_?"

Firs'ehcô's eyes reopened and it seemed to have an almost expectant air about it.

"_I can __**report that fifty**__ new persons __**have just boarded**__ this station. They are __**presently approaching**__ this section __**and will**__ arrive – barring __**your current**__ difficulties – in approximately __**twelve hundred**__ seconds."_

"Twenty minutes? Can you show us these people?" Shepard asked. Firs'ehcô simply projected their image as an answer. Behind him, Mulholland muttered.

"_Oh, shit." _

Shepard turned to her.

"You recognize them?"

Amy nodded, her face grave. She took a few steps back from the projection.

"From the information _they_ gave me," she nodded to the ceiling, "– _that's_ the Pandemonia Inquisitoria."

Shepard studied the armored men and women in the image. They moved with perfect discipline and intent purpose.

"Definite trouble then."

Mulholland started walking to the room's entrance.

"They're _far_ more than _that_." She stopped in the doorway, motioned for them all to follow her. "Don't just stand there! We have _got_ to get out of here. As good as you all are – you would _not_ survive fifty of _them_."

Grunt scoffed mightily.

"We've beaten _everybody_." He told her, completely certain in the truth of his statement.

Mulholland fixed him with a serious gaze.

"_Five hundred _of them took their version of _your_ homeworld in _three days_."

Grunt sputtered, spat and scoffed again.

"Impossible."

"Tell that to the billions of enslaved and obedient krogan in their Compression."

Shepard looked to Jack, back to Firs'ehcô who had closed its eyes again. The scan image had also vanished. As he opened his mouth to speak an alarm suddenly caterwauled through the area. The door in front of Mulholland abruptly slammed shut, barely missing her.

Firs'ehcô said simply, "_The __**new**__ persons __**have breached**__ the first __**door to this**__ section." _It paused as it scanned the internal networks of the station. "All **secondary, tertiary** and backup **redundancies have** been engaged."

"Which means…?" Murtock asked.

"We're trapped." Jack finished for him.


	39. Flynn For The Wynn

**FORMER NEW CHAMBERLAIN COLONY**

**SECOND LARGEST MOON OF BORR**

**EXODUS CLUSTER**

**OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**THE FIRST SOUND HE HEARD WAS A HOLLOW GROAN.** The groan was all around him, muttering through the ground, rolling slowly through the air, a stuttering doleful lamentation that occasionally crackled, snapped off an angry hiss and then returned to it funeral dirging. When his vision cleared, Flynn took a few moments to attempt to orient himself, realized that was futile and did his best to trust gravity as to the approximate direction of up. He gave it a wobbling try, decided he couldn't trust gravity after all and waited a few more moments. The light available was scattered through a reddish-grey foggy gloom that tasted like oily ozone. He shifted, felt himself sink a little, made a fist and brought up a handful of whatever it was to sway in his yet-blurry vision. He opened his hand and a white dusty substance floated away with the groan. He himself was coated with it, a ghostly white in the lamenting haze.

_Soft._ He had landed on something soft – well, reasonably soft. Even a mountain of down-filled pillows will feel like smacking a wall if you fall from high enough. He was in a rather great deal of pain he could have done without and was likely one big Irish bruise, but he was moving and conscious. That'd do for now. He coughed. Nothing a litre of good _poitín _couldn't cure.

"_Duke!_" Flynn stood, then oriented himself. He was on a huge mound of mine tailings. The taste of the stuff billowing as he moved told him it was likely gypsum sand, harmless and soft enough to have saved his life and with extended luck, Duke as well. It was sticky, likely due to the greasy damp that clung to everything, but that was the least of his problems. He spotted a slash of dark on the white pile, made his way to it and was rewarded with the battered form of his old comrade. A quick check showed him still alive. The sky above was a red-lined black roiling mass that thundered on occasion, crackled with green lightning. A fine fall of black snow swirling and darting to the ground. The groaning he realized, was coming from the sky itself.

Flynn sat back, vainly tried to get the dust from his hair while he pondered his situation, then did a doubletake when he realized his hand had come away from his head _red_. Pain lanced through his temples and he felt a knobby lump behind his right ear.

"Well, Duke," he began, voice hoarse. "The thing abou' me luck is that it's… luck." He chuckled. "Sorry, no refunds." Another cough, and a small red spray misted the air when he did it. He twisted slightly to his right, felt a grinding agony shoot up his side. Great. Yes, Irish luck, Dullahan-level. It gave and took in equal amounts. The tight-fitting armor he wore under his clothes (_simple insurance and an old habit_) was keeping things from moving too much, but it did nothing for pain. Still-and-all, he could have been much worse off. Hell, if a couple of busted ribs was the worst of it, he'd thank the great whatevers and call it a good day. A wave of pain sloshed back and forth in his skull and seemed as if it was in no apparent hurry to bugger off any time soon.

"Feck it. This is'na abou' me." He stood again, saw a gantry sticking out near the pile they were on, a gantry that ran back to the incidental road open pit mining always produced. A look up and a fortuitous flash of lightning showed him how far they'd fallen and he shook his head. _Luck? Miracle? Didn't care_. Alive was good for the moment, and keeping it that way meant getting out of here. A quick check netted him a painkiller from a belt-pouch and he got himself up. Surprisingly, he still had Brigid, and Duke as yet had his purloined rifle on his back. Good. Armed was good. You never knew what awaited you in any gloom.

Another check on Duke and he pulled his friend from the pile to hoist him over his shoulders into a fireman's carry. He staggered as pain shot up his side, but gritted his teeth and told it to piss off. During those days in the crucible of hell called Torfan, this man was closer than his own brother. Flynn would bear him to the edge of hell and beyond, and he would trust himself and his not-inconsiderable physicality to get them both where they needed to be. The sand made it rough going but he made it to the gantry then shoved Duke onto it, pulled himself up and sat for a moment. _That way_. That way went up. That ship must have destroyed the colony. No other explanation for the dark and thunder. He picked Duke back up, settled him on his shoulders, huffed a breath out and started off. The painkiller began to kick in, and his discomfort ebbed off. Not enough, but into tolerable ranges.

One foot in front of the other. Gusts of hot wind made him sway and thick clouds of cloying matter made him gag and cough. One foot, the next, his mind fixed on his goal. Duke's weight was only noticed when Flynn stumbled in a particularly strong buffet of wind.

_You should get a medal for this. _Duke told him.

"Aye," he replied without thinking. "I've got me a few already."

_A Star of Terra too, for your actions saving that troop of marines on Torfan._

Flynn blinked, stopped walking. Was Duke not _unconscious_?

"Hold on…" Flynn pulled Duke's head around, re-checked. Same as before. Puzzled, but not alarmed, he muttered, "There ye go. Still out cold."

_Is that a problem?_

"Well, yeah, it's kinda important 'cause it means one of us is'nae in his right mind."

_We really don't have time for this._

"Fine. Explain how yer doin' this, and then we'll keep going."

_Explain what? _Flynn watched for lip movement, got none.

"The non-moving of yer lips yet yer voice _still_ going on."

_Is it important?_ Flynn tried to match lips to words one more time, gave up.

There was a sudden crackle, a thunderous boom, and Flynn instinctively dove for the ground, Duke rolling away from him as he hit, his vision red from the pain that shot up his side, through his head.

_Portal charge! Wait for secondaries!_

"_Roight!" _Flynn rolled to a rock pile dragging Duke after him. He lay there and panted, pain drumming through his chest. There was a rumble that vibrated under him, seemed to go down into the ground a distance, then rumble back up before petering out. Below them, there was a grinding sliding boom and dust billowed up. Bits of the mine were collapsing. Somewhere high above him he thought he saw a light spear through the gloom, but it went away before he could be sure.

Wait - a _portal charge_? In a _mine_? Duke must've hit his head a little _too_ hard. Flynn checked.

Yup. Unconscious.

Not on Torfan. On New Chamberlain. Those new lads attacked an' destroyed the place. Fer some reason, Duke thinks he's back on Torfan.

_I appreciate you lending me your legs._

"I've carried ye this far, haen't I? It canna be all that to get there." Flynn spat more blood on the dusty ground. They both appeared as splotchy dim-grey specters, streaked with white sand, black snow and dirt. "When I make a mess o' things, I do it _large_."

_I appreciate your consistency, if nothing else. _

Flynn cough-chuckled as he rolled over onto his back closing his gritty, burning eyes. Every movement was a new shade of pain, every blink made his world purple. This was all a little too familiar, and he could see why Duke might think they were back on Torfan. Flynn suspected that the weapon that destroyed the colony had reached even down into the mine. His guts felt twisted and pulled upon, every muscle sore, his broken ribs stabbing in protest of every breath. He suspected that only his size and armor had saved him from anything more serious. His head was a different story. That lump on it had grown and while the bleeding had slowed, the pain was getting steadily worse. Far below, there was a heavy rumble that vibrated through the whole mine. Something very large and very heavy groaned and toppled downward.

_You kept talking to keep me awake. You even sang - poorly I might add - a few of your favourite Irish ditties._

"Irish men sing badly when they're sober. Better when drunk, 'cause they mean it more, then." A hiss and a rockfall made him open his eyes. "This fooking mine is gonna collapse. Gotta go."

Flynn climbed painfully to his feet, had to brace himself against the ground as his brain slid hard to the left and almost toppled him again, vision greying. He waited. Far beneath him, the vibration was building again. His vision cleared, mostly and he checked on Duke again. The light was only incrementally better, but he could see a large bruise on Black's face that extended into the man's hair, which meant nothing good. His left leg was at an angle Flynn didn't like, and he'd shed some blood of his own but as far as Flynn could tell it was mostly superficial. The man was still breathing, so he was still ahead of the game.

Duke went back onto his shoulders and Flynn staggered a little but steadied himself.

"Roight. Lef' foot, roight foot. Feet move th' body, and ye get places." He grimaced as pain shot through his knee. "Pain's fer the other guy. Simple enow. One-two." Pain or not, Flynn started walking again.

'_We came in strong, a brigade, brigade, tall and proud, no heroes were made, made.' You remember that?_

"Aye, well enough." A breath. "_And we march on, march on, dead and gone, dead and gone… we are Torfan's Few, the Few..."_

_I think Tac-Com was wrong. There was easily full company-strength in that Eastside bunker complex._

"At the time, maybe. For'ard Recon said th' borer charge took out thirty-eight in the open annex. If'n there _were_ a full C in there, they scarpered after."

_Who did we lose taking it? _

Flynn pursed his lips as he trudged on, trying to remember.

"Most'a Jane Morgan's A Company sappers, I think. Craiggson was hoppin' mad after Mad Dog ordered his thirds and fourths inta th' Bent Gap."

_And why not? The batarians killed every last one._

"They closed the fookin' Gap though. Not one BT escaped." Flynn climbed painfully over an anti-ground vehicle barrier, kept going. "Still counts."

_Indeed. I believe there should be a junction coming up – two doors and a short corridor._

"No, Duke. Tha' was on Torfan. We're not there, we're here." Flynn stumbled, went down hard on his bad knee, cursed.

_You did hit your head rather hard._

Something blew in the mine lower down with a great coughing roar. Blue flame billowed out of the side of the pit wall sending tons of rock flying then roared high enough to singe them. It gushed out of its hole as Flynn dragged himself and Duke away from the edge of it. It did not look to be stopping any time soon, and faint muffled pops under it told Flynn that whatever had produced that was in the process of producing more. A moment later and slightly higher, another blue flame punched its way through the rock wall. A plasticrete barrier under the new hole began to melt, and Flynn knew it was time to give it as much distance as possible. Up he went.

Around the turn, unseen, a hopper full of gravel chose then to tilt and then spill, a few tons of gravel scrabbling down.

_Guards!_ Duke harsh-whispered in his head, and Flynn was against the wall before he'd realized what he was doing, Brigid in hand. He waited, tense, adrenaline surging, pain fading. Duke's weight on his shoulders vanished. Another few moments, and Flynn risked a peek.

"I t'ink they're gone."

He eased from the wall, kept Brigid in one hand, edged his way around the turn. Nothing. A heavy excavator blocked the way. A rock underfoot and Flynn's foot twisted, his knee protesting, and he nearly fell, bouncing off the pit wall.

"Fookin' _hell_! One decent torch is too much ta ask, yeh?" A deep breath, a crack of his neck vertebrae and he proceeded to the excavator. He tested his ankle. No pain. One small blessing, at least. "The mine. _Nawt _the tunnels. The _mine_," He reminded himself.

_Do you know where you're going?_

"Aye – _up_. I thought it obvious."

_How are you feeling, anyway?_

"Fine. I've gone farther in worse shape." The excavator was easily the width of the road, but had a walkway built on, and he climbed aboard. The other side was a sheer drop to the bottom of the mine. Once a day was his limit.

_Would it be worth shorting anything out while we're in here?_

"In where?"

_Looks like a relay shunt junction. Might control power to this side of the bunker. Let's see how they like it._

"It's an _excavator_, Duke. In a _mine_."

_That's ridiculous. Why would there be batarians in a mine?_

"There hain't!" The railing on the walkway helped as he slumped against it a moment, his back aching.

_You heard them! At least a dozen out there patrolling. I know you don't fear much, but don't make light of this. There's a substantive difference between bravery and foolhardiness!_

"I killed three _hunnerd_ BT's on Torfan!" He said, peering at Duke's face. Still unconscious. Flynn _needed_ a rest, but he wasn't about to admit it out loud.

_You need a rest._

"I'm _fine_!" Flynn yelled at him indignantly. "An' thar ain't _no_ fookin' BT's in dis _moine_!"

_Keep your voice down! You know, you grow more incomprehensible the more Irish you become!_

Flynn opened his mouth to retort, closed it. Now _that_ sounded familiar.

"Aye… you also said tha' _exact_ thing ta me in Oberon Base on Torfan."

_Of course I did. On _Torfan.

"We're _nawt_ on bloody Torfan!"

_I think, in your present state, it's unwise for you to jump to conclusions._

"Oh, fer feck's _sake_!"

_Don't swear. It's unattractive._

"Great. Now you sound like Miri."

_Well, maybe she was right._

"_Don't_ fookin' _start_."

Flynn made it around the heavy excavator. Its lights were still on, giving him a better vantage on the road. The driver was very dead. He contemplated using the thing for a moment, decided against it. He'd been trained to drive and pilot a great many vehicles, but there were too many crumbly slopes around, and slides were still thundering down as he went, taking shacks and vehicles to the bottom of the mine with them. He walked for another twenty minutes or so, trying to remember the words to a song he'd heard an asari jazz singer warble on Illium. He'd been there with…

_See any resin? _Duke interrupted.

Flynn shook his head.

"_Nawt_ on Torfan, fer _Christ's sake_, Duke! Get it through yer head!"

_Just answer the question. _

On Torfan, batarians had an explosive that consisted of a clear plastic resin, infinitely malleable. Even a small ball-bearing-sized bit of it could blow a man into many, many small pieces. Most grunts called it 'Squint Spit'. The BT's would shape it and paint it to mimic latches or access pads. Since at the time the Alliance led with biotics in any kind of urban warfare, even the faint static discharge from their amps would set the stuff off. Of the full brigade sent to root the batarians out of their subterranean stronghold, with a five hundred biotics in, only _fifty_ of the B-slingers made it off that bloody rock. The batarians had rigged everything they could think of, and then some.

"No. No feckin' resin."

_Do you remember that nightclub on Ashara Indra?_

"Ah – see, that proves you hit yer head! Ye were never there!"

_She could move when she wanted too, though. Just seriously drew the eye…_

"Aye, an' too bloody good fer the likes o' me! You keep rubbin' it in an' I'll trow yer dead weight back over th' side!"

Another grating roar, and a rockslide took out the excavator he'd just passed. Flynn didn't look back, just kept trudging. Small rocks ricocheted off them as they went but Flynn didn't notice. He stopped to scratch his nose then suddenly realized they were finally topside. Flynn closed his eyes and tried to rub some of the grit out. The area had once been full of vehicles, equipment shacks, miner dorms – a _town. _Now there was nothing but black snow drifting, howling dervish winds, mounds of grey ash. The ground appeared as if it had been all raked toward what had once been the centre of the colony. Every cough was a punch in the lungs, the air too thick with ash, dust and the remains of the colony to bother even trying to get a decent breath any longer. He was unbelievably tired, body aching in every way he could conceive. Just a few metres from him, a stack of pallets remained and he dropped Duke on the top, sat heavily on the ground next to them. His legs weighed a few tons and were happy to just feel ground underneath them.

"I think," Flynn told the black snow as it drifted past, "I've gone as far as I can go."

_Dying here is not an option._

"Fine. _You _carry _me_ fer a while."

Silence.

"Yeah, thought so." Flynn sighed, cursed an old Irish curse under his breath. "Jus' restin', is all. No plans on dyin' today. Didn't walk all that way fer nuthin'."

_Do you think she ever actually cared?_

Flynn started, then just went with it, too tired to care.

"If she had, she would nae ha' marooned me there, and ran back to _him_. I tol' her it were no life fer her. She could'a been _anythin'._" He laughed a small deprecating chuckle. "Shows ye what I know."

Over the wind, Flynn thought he heard a voice, but it seemed far away, and for a moment he wondered if _he_ was even actually conscious – until he heard it again, just above his head.

"_Dulla_… han…" Duke – awake for real this time. Flynn reached up, tapped the side of the pallets, too weary for anything else.

"Aye. Noice to see ye awake, brother."

"That feels …temporary. Did we …win?" Flynn took in the devastation around him, looked down at his ashen self. Winning, as always, was just a matter of perspective.

"Aye. More or less."

"Good… this …reminds me of…"

"One last time, Duke. _Not Torfan_."

In the distance, the smoke thinned, and he could see a winking stack of lights, had to blink a few times to make sure. The lights remained. He suddenly realized what they were attached to and smiled broadly.

"Sunuva_bitch_." He painfully climbed to his feet, then checked on Duke. His eyes fluttered, and Flynn peeled one open. Good. Still in there. No dying today, no dropping just short of the finish line.

Left foot, right foot, one-two. Behind him, that roaring rumble began deep in the mine again and started to grow. This time it didn't die off. On the other side of the pit, great chunks of the walls of the thing were collapsing in on themselves, huge sinkholes opening behind that.

_That_… was very bad.

Flynn found new strength as he picked Duke back up and moved determinedly toward those beacons. The mining ship port was cut into a cliff-face, and it still had power. With any kind of fortune at all, his ship was still in one piece. Ahead, a huge wedge of rock broke off from that cliff and roared down, crashing hard and bouncing away, crushing anything beneath it.

So far, for he and Duke, so good. Not long now, not far to go. The rumble under his feet was growing in intensity. Flynn swore he could hear it coming at him.

Flynn crested a rise, and finally got an overview of what was left of New Chamberlain, amazed at the sheer thoroughness of the destruction. Most buildings still standing had been crushed _inward, _as if squeezed by some giant hand. They looked as fragile as sand. Even as he gazed over the smashed colony, a gust of groaning wind swirled across an office building and it simply _blew away_. All other structures had been smashed to their foundations and then the debris dragged to the centre of the blast zone in a huge artificial mountain. He doubted anyone survived that weapon, and then immediately wondered just what kind of weapon could do this. He had the feeling Duke and he only survived because they'd fallen so deep into the mining pit. A glance up showed streaks in the sky, daylight poking through as the cloud mass began to dissipate. What could only be ship running lights became visible blinking through the remaining haze. The mound at the centre of the former colony started to shake as the rumble caught it. The ship lights turned to beacons, began playing over the blasted ground.

_Shall we hope those are Alliance ships? More batarians would be bad._

He agreed. More _anyone_ not Alliance would be bad. On Torfan, it had turned out that the Hegemony had sent an entire _division_ to secure Torfan, plus three hundred _Hjak'rakar_ killers. They allowed the Alliance brigade to get in and then locked the system down. Five thousand humans against fifteen thousand batarians. One squad of N7's against a battalion of some of the Hegemony's most highly-trained and efficient killers. Bastards didn't stand a chance, but they made the humans pay for every metre.

"Too far out fer Alliance, Duke. Yer obsessin'."

_Are you certain you didn't hit your head?_

"I'm more worried about our _arses_ at the moment." Flynn saw the hanger doors closed and exulted again. Unless something else inexplicable had occurred, they were only a few steps off this cauldron. A few moments more and they were through the door of the customs office and into the hanger itself. Despite what he'd told Duke, Flynn knew he was reaching his limits. Had they not taken that mad plunge into the mine, he'd have shrugged most of this off. The pain in his head threatened to knock him cold with every jarring step, and every bone, muscle and sinew hated his guts.

Flynn stopped, then cursed luridly. The pain in his head started a staccato drubbing on his brain that threatened to knock him out.

Half the hanger had been crushed in a collapse.


	40. The Miracle

**THESSIA, PALAVEN, SUR'KESH,**

**TUCHUNKA, EARTH, ETC**

**SOL SYSTEM**

**LATE OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**THEY APPEARED ALL AT ONCE,** all over the major homeworlds. In the hearts of every Reaper infestation, the middles of the fiercest battles that yet waged against the millions of husks and Reaper creatures still infesting each planet. Yet unlike everywhere they'd appeared previously, the strange tattered figures dubbed "Vectors" uttered only one word.

"_**C**__e__**A**__s__**E**__." _

With one touch from each, as if they were hit by a disintegration weapon, waves of Reaper creatures simply _vanished_ into ash. With each Vectors' influence seemingly overlapping the others, the phenomenon blanketed entire planets. The mammoth hulks of Reaper Destroyers and Capitals shrank and dissipated. The Vectors then vanished as if they had never been. All whom had waged a seemingly hopeless battle previously could do nothing but stand in shocked awe and stunned surprise. Many could not believe it. Many would not believe it. Despite those misgivings it was quite obvious. The Reaper War seemed well and now-truly finished. Governments counted their blessings and planned celebrations followed by rebuilding action plans. Some however were neither so joyous nor so certain. Worlds were still wrecked and billions had perished, millions of corpses littered every world, planets stank of despair and were soaked in grief. It had seemed as if the one blessing all prayed for had simply appeared and had been delivered, then the redeemers simply vanished without demand or recompense.

Nothing happened without a reason.

This "miracle" was no exception.


	41. The Inquisitoria Arrive

**ALPHA CITADEL**

**THE VOID**

**SYSTEM INAPPLICABLE**

**LATE OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**"THEY'RE REALLY _THAT_ DANGEROUS?"** Jack had backed away from the one entrance with the others. Mulholland nodded – again.

"Yes for _the fifth time_!"

Shepard and Javik were scanning the room furiously looking for any exit, as it appeared that they were sealed in tight. The rest of Murtock's pack had been scavenged and now everyone was armed with something, even if just a pistol, all save Mulholland who insisted she knew nothing of firearms.

"I was a starship _engineer_ before I got here," she informed them. "We received very basic training, but nothing I remember. I'm more apt to shoot one of you trying."

Shepard had 'borrowed' Murtock's _Avenger_. Pre-T-clip was a bonus in this situation. He was certainly proficient in the standard arms, but he'd always thought thermal clips a rather limiting 'upgrade'.

"_**Excuse**__ me,"_ Firs'ehcô interrupted. "_Several __**of the approaching**__ persons __**designated "Pandemonia**__ Inquisitoria' __**by**__ Mulholland appear __**to have broken**__ off from the __**initial group."**_

"How many?" Shepard inquired.

"_Thirty-__**five**__."_

"Well, that evens the odds somewhat." Javik intoned but Mulholland shook her head.

"Still too many." She told them, as grim as a tomb.

"Come _on_," Grunt growled.

"You could handle _five. _Maybe ten, armed to the teeth. _Maybe. _Not fifteen."

Shepard looked back at Javik.

"Keep looking," he said with a growl. Amy was right. In their present condition, even with Jack and Javik's biotics, what weapons the non-biotics did possess were old and scant, their options slim-to-none.

Jack shook her head and leaned against a wall. She doubted those 'Inquisitoria' were all _that_ dangerous. Still, Shepard was taking the new girl at her word and that was good enough for her. Murtock, she noticed, was just staring at Firs'ehcô. She pushed herself off the wall and went to him.

"Hey, what's so damn fascinatin'?" She poked him. Murtock just nodded and continued to stare.

"I was jus' curious. That thing…"

"Firs'ehcô." Jack interrupted.

"Whatever. That probe got in here by crashing into this station, yeah?"

Jack nodded, wondering where he was going with this. Despite how he might appear to others, Murtock wasn't stupid.

"Yeah…"

"So's the Keepers' been sealing it in here, right?"

"That's the story, yeah." Jack crossed her arms, leaned back to regard him and added with just a hint of sarcasm, "Doing all that damage control trapped us in here."

"That's the story," Murtock rejoined. "Again, just curious – it said it was integratin' itself into the local networks. All well-and-good, but _how's_ it doin' it?" He turned and waved an arm to encompass the room. "Lookin' at them panels, they ain't original. I think this room was a bit smaller before it got here. The crash blew it open."

Shepard overheard and joined them. Jack stepped closer to the big man unconsciously and Murtock frowned.

"That makes sense. You have a point with all of this?" Shepard asked, voice neutral.

"Uh, _yeah_. If _that _was one section," he pointed to the door. "And _this_ was a _different_ section," he pointed to the different style of panelling then jabbed a thumb at Firs'ehcô behind him. "What's _behind_ the big face up there?"

Jack half-smiled and Shepard slapped Murtock on the back, which he resented.

"Lateral thinking," Shepard told him.

"That was a compliment," Jack told Murtock who appeared unmoved. _Like he gave a damn._

Firs'ehcô reported another series of doors blown open.

"_Anomalous __**readings**__,"_ Firs'ehcô added. "_It __**appears that the**__ thirty-five __**deviated from the**__ initial group __**have engaged**__ other __**residents of**__ this station." _

"_Other_ residents?" Javik asked. Jack answered.

"Yeah, when we first got here, Firs'ehcô told us there were at least fifty other people besides us here."

"I see." Javik replied, then turned his attention to Firs'ehcô. "Is it true what this human surmised? What lies behind you?"

"_Five __**hundred forty**__ seconds __**to**__ penetration by the __**Inquisitoria**__ to this __**section**__. To __**answer your**__ question what __**you converse**__ with is merely __**an interface**__. The __**rest of …me**__ extends __**for several sections**__ behind it, __**including my**__**consciousness emulation**__ processors and __**legacy bank**__."_

"This will sound odd," Shepard told the probe. "But we need to get in you."

Firs'ehcô blinked and seemed to consider what he'd said.

"_**Being that it**__ is within my __**protocols, I must**__ inform you __**that any entrance**__ into my __**superstructure**__ carries __**with it some risk**__. There are __**many and varied**__ safeguards __**present that discourage**__ tampering __**with either my CEP's**__ or my __**Legacy Bank**__."_

"We just want a way out," Shepard told it.

A few far-too-long moments later, a hatch opened on the side of its 'head' a few meters off the floor.

"Good call!" Jack punched Murtock in the arm as she went by. Mulholland followed with a smile and a "Soundly reasoned."

Shepard and Javik went past him without a comment. Grunt just growled, "Would have figured it out eventually," and stomped on. Murtock just smiled to himself. _The big heroes missed one._

"It's a bit high," Shepard announced, eyeing the hatchway. Jack tapped him on the shoulder.

"I can do it." Her biotics flared. "Let's make it quick." Shepard eyed her for a moment, then nodded. Better part of valour and all that.

"_**Ninety **__seconds to __**penetration of this**__ section."_

Jack rather effortlessly lifted her companions to the hatchway, hardly feeling the strain. Her new self-designed amps barely registered the required energy. Murtock and Shepard were last.

"Now you," Jack told Murtock as she waved him to come nearer. He was shaking his head. When he'd known her, lifting a krogan as big as Grunt would have been a visible strain. She'd barely seemed to notice. Things _really_ were different. He pointed to Shepard.

"No, send him. Somebody's gotta hoist you."

"_Sixty__**-one**__ seconds."_

"_Just do what you're told."_ She said in that tone that brooked no arguments. "I have my tricks."

"No, look - !" He protested and with an exaggerated sigh, Jack 'grabbed' him and practically flung him to the hatchway. Grunt caught him as he hurtled, quite surprised, through the opening.

"It'd just be easier if _they listened_, y'know?" She told Shepard with a grin. He simply nodded, gave a slight bow and was shortly deposited up above. Murtock stepped forward as Shepard touched down.

"All right, let's get… _her_…." Murtock slowed as Jack gracefully floated up and stepped in. The hatch closed behind her. She cocked her head at him.

"Get it?"

Murtock just shook his head and conceded.

"Got it." Below, they heard a muted crunching explosion.

"Time to go," Shepard informed them. The space they were in was tube-like, a dim maintenance corridor lined with glowing panels in various shapes pulsing on and off with no readily discernible rhythm. A _shirring_ hum interspersed with staccato clicks the only sounds.

"The Mryth'dehl were not a tall species." Javik informed them. Only Jack could stand at her full height. Everyone else had to crouch at varying degrees. Grunt filled the entire space a little _too_ adequately.

"Firs'ehcô," Shepard asked quietly, as he led the rest down the corridor. "Can you still hear us?"

"_Of __**course**__,"_ it replied as quietly. "_The __**individuals**__ you termed '__**Inquisitoria' are**__ currently __**searching the**__ area. They seem __**taken aback at**__ my presence."_

"We'd like to use that, if you don't mind. Feel free to engage them in conversation while we leave."

"_I __**have always**__ enjoyed __**conversing with organics**__."_ It stopped speaking for a moment to run an internal scan, then resumed. "_My main __**processors are**__ two sections __**ahead of**__ you. There is __**a fuel-processing**__ hatchway behind __**the legacy**__ bank which __**is**__ pyramidal __**in shape**__."_ A holo popped up to show them what it described. "_Good __**fortune**__."_

"Appreciate the help," Shepard told it. "Post-haste, everyone. I know _it_ likes to talk, but I don't think those Inquisitoria are the talking types."

They hurried on.

* * *

**THE INQUISITORIA** were not distracted from their goals easily. Yet they could be forgiven upon encountering Firs'ehcô.

All but the Captain knelt before it. Its face was one they'd seen before. The Captain of the troop marched fearlessly in.

Firs'ehcô had to admit that this was the first time this had ever happened. It was not until it spoke that the Captain hastily likewise dropped to one knee.

"Greetings, **representatives** of the **Inquisitoria**," Firs'ehcô said and it was also surprised to see one of the red-clad beings tremble ever so slightly. Most peculiar. It had never before elicited _fear_ in anything.

"_We seek the enemies of the Desolation,"_ Firs'ehcô was told in a voice as cold and toneless as any VI. "_Do you sing of the True Echo?"_

"_**True**__ echo?"_ The great face asked. "_Curious. I am __**called Firs'ehcô**__. Perhaps I can __**be of service**__?" _Again the Inquisitors did something Firs'ehcô found odd. At the pronouncement of its designation, all of them prostrated themselves onto their bellies, faces on the floor.

"_The First Echo!"_ They muttered in unison. The Captain crawled forward still on her belly with one hand raised in supplication.

"_Forgive us! We would not have been so bold in Your Presence had we known!" _Firs'ehcô blinked in confusion.

"_Not __**at all.**__ Please, I am __**not used to**__ abjection. Rise, __**by all **__means."_

Only the Captain did so and then only back to her knees.

"_You are __**most interesting**__ creatures. Were you __**seeking any particular**__ enemies?"_

"All on this Pivot not of this Pivot." The Captain returned.

"_I __**am not of this**__ 'Pivot' as __**you call**__ it. Technically, __**I believe I**__ qualify as an __**enemy under**__ that rather narrow __**criteria, would**__ I not?"_

The Captain seemed taken aback by the statement. Heads of the troop behind her came tentatively up.

"_Do you call Yourself our enemy?"_ She tried, trepidation in every word.

"_By __**my personal**__ definition, I __**do not**__. Yet by __**your stated criteria**__ I would qualify, __**as I am not native**__ to this station."_

One could almost see the confusion on the Captain's face through her fierce helmet. Fourth Knight rose to one knee and slowly edged toward her.

"_Forgive me, Captain. Perhaps this is a test…?" _ The Captain waved him back, but concurred. Her mind was still swirling from the revelation of the face before her.

All over True Space, _that face_ rode the banners of the Lord Remnant, the Image of the Father Echo, the True Word, the Face of the Desolation. Even the Lord Remnant Himself wore the Dagger of the Mark, that which granted Him His Office, the very shape that could be seen on the Face before them. It shook everything she knew to be here in the Presence.

Yet it denied itself. But then, was that not the first thing a god did?

"_Your logic is flawless, of course,"_ she told it. "_Yet you cannot be an enemy."_

"_If I __**wished it,**__ I could. __**I appreciate**__ that I __**am**__ not." _Firs'ehcô scanned them and found them to be most peculiar. These beings had been heavily and extensively modified, both cybernetically and genetically. Using its previous scan of humans, it determined that the Inquisitoria before it had no fewer than thirty separate gene-mods applied. They also seemed to be grafted physically into their armor. The removal of any piece, save some parts of their helmets, would likely cause grievous bodily harm.

"_Tell us, O First Echo_," The Captain said, reinforcing the memory. "_Why do you reside on this, the Silent Pivot?"_

"_I crashed __**here**__."_

Inside her helmet, the Captain's HUD was registering many odd things, things she would normally not attempt to ignore. Flat energy readings from the Face before her. Traces of Human and brute DNA. That the Face gave off no discernible life indicators of any kind. True, a god would be beyond any mundane instrumentality, but it should have been registering _something_ beyond what one would normally receive from a mechanism. Still, if a god wished to test her in such a manner, she was not one to gainsay it. Firs'ehcô was not finished, however.

"_I am __**the formerly**__-autonomous __**platform of the**__ Mryth'dehl __**peoples, bearing**__ their __**genetic legacy**__ away from __**the destruction**__ of the __**Ancient Machine Enemy**__, recent __**nomenclature referent**__ 'Reapers'."_

The Captain frowned. Behind her she heard a Knight mutter. She stood to her full height.

"_That is a thing a machine might say."_

"_I _am _a __**machine, so it**__ is precisely __**something a machine**__ would say." _

Behind her the rest of her Knights likewise stood.

"_You are no god!_" one shouted at it. Firs'ehcô was unperturbed.

"_I __**did not**__ state __**at any time**__ that I _was_." _The great eyes fixed themselves squarely on the Captain. "_That __**was a determination**__ you made __**entirely on**__ your own __**initiative. I am**__ beginning to __**suspect that this**__ is something __**your species does**__ quite readily, given past experience and recent information acquisition."_

"_A trick."_ The Captain said, suddenly certain. Not a god. A trap. A delaying tactic. Heretics had no shame, so they would have none using holy images in their ploys. The DNA traces were _fresh_ – which meant that prey were here shortly before they arrived – and there was only one way out.

Which meant…

The Captain's in-built arm cannon flared, her targeting reticle on her HUD lining-up squarely with the Face before her. Using a god's image to deceive the faithful was beyond blasphemy. The image itself became profane. This blasphemy befouled all of the Faith.

This could not be permitted.

The ensuing detonation cleanly punched between Firs'ehcô's eyes and the mechanisms behind them. One of the eyes, dislodged from its socket by the shot fell with a crystalline crash and a welter of starry fluid. Behind the gaping hole, the Inquisitoria could see an open space. Being augmented, it was no real effort for them to reach the lip of the hole and climb in. They wasted no time.

Somewhere ahead the prey ran.

* * *

**THE BLAST REVERBERATED** all the way down Firs'ehcô's superstructure.

"Yeah. That was _bad_." Jack muttered as they made their way. Ahead a glowing pyramid announced their arrival at the so-called "Legacy Bank".

"Firs'ehcô – can you hear me?" Shepard asked.

"_**Of **__course."_ It replied almost instantly. "_The __**Inquisitoria have**__ destroyed __**my interface**__. They seemed __**to be rather disturbed**__ that I am __**not a deity**__."_

"Happens to me all the time," Murtock offered. Jack snorted. Shepard rolled his eyes as Grunt chuckled behind him.

* * *

_The knights followed her into Firs'ehcô's interior. Internal bulkheads slammed down as they entered, but that slowed them hardly at all. Fourth Knight used his heavy cannon and simply burned through. An unseen sonic cannon killed him, shredding the armor from his body, that armor's internal powercells detonating as the shell was breached, killing Fifth and Seventh Knight behind him. The Captain did not relent. She ordered the surviving Knights to simply cut their way through._

* * *

"Here's the hatch," Mulholland told them. As she announced it Firs'ehcô opened it. Behind them they could hear the Inquisitoria firing their weapons and the subsequent explosions – as well as a few shouts of what sounded like men dying. Through the hatchway they could see another corridor below. Shepard dropped onto his stomach and stuck his head out as his companions watched the area behind them. The corridor below was empty and lined with windows. The empty space beyond those windows made them seem opaque. At the end of the corridor, Shepard could see a heavy door that marked the terminus of the inner Citadel and its outer shell; usually where the docks tended to be and hopefully access to Javik's ship.

"I think we're in luck. It looks like a short run down another corridor to a docking annex." Shepard told them as he hauled himself back to his feet. "The drop is only a couple of metres to the floor."

"My ship was directly below where I first appeared, Commandah. We are yet going in that general direction." Javik informed him. Shepard nodded in affirmation as he waved them all forward.

"That's a plus. Let's get out of here."

* * *

_By the time they'd found the exit, The Captain had gone from fifteen Knights to six, all killed by the unexpectedly formidable defences of the ancient probe. Arc cannons fired high-intensity electric beams that cooked men in their shells, sonic weapons shredded armor and killed Knights untouched by any weapon with the eruptions of the penetrated armor's powercells. Focused plasma cutters that killed by slicing through armor and man like the proverbial hot knife. Her Knights tried to scatter, but most didn't know what hit them, their shouts of alarm and agony entirely justified. Half the casualties came from the armor shorting out and detonating as it was breached._

* * *

One by one, they dropped through the hatch, Grunt a bit of a squeeze but a solid shove popped him through. Shepard hesitated dropping through himself as Firs'ehcô seemed to give off an odd whirring noise, then spoke.

"_You __**were very**__ intriguing __**beings.**__ The Inquisitoria __**seems to be somewhat**__ confused as to __**the direction **__**they**__ should take."_ There was a distant popping sound. "_They have __**determined a more**__ direct __**approach is**__ warranted." _Another crunching blast, slightly closer. "_Goodbye, __**human.**__ My inter__**nal defences will be**__come autom__**ated and indi**__scriminate if I __**am attack**__ed internally. The Inquisitoria is discovering that at this moment. __**You need **__to hurry. Th__**e**__y are also …destro…ying __**my cognit…ive **__processors in __**an **__attempt to ridi__**cu**__lous ham…mer tyrann__**ical**__ as__**sem**__bly bartles."_

Shepard cursed to himself. Zealots were an enemy he'd rather avoid, if possible. There would be no reasoning with them and no fear in them. Only death would stop them. Even a god, apparently, would not bar their way.

"I appreciate your help, Firs'ehcô. I'm sorry we couldn't have done more."

Firs'ehcô's reply, if it was a reply, was merely a burst of juddering static.

Shepard dropped himself through the hatch, landed solidly below where his companions waited. Above, the hatchway closed.

"_Go!_ They're right behind us!" At that they all took off at a fast trot. At the end of the corridor the heavy door opened with no trouble and closed behind them. Shepard skidded to a halt, searched for a moment, found the door control access and slammed a fist into the circuitry behind the panel. Sparks climbed his arm as the door shorted out. The pain was minor and Shepard ignored it, trying to quickly assess the bay.

The others were running to a control station. Mulholland gracefully leapt over the short wall and was at the console, where she immediately tried to call up an interface. Her curse was loud when nothing happened.

"What?" Jack asked her, coming over the wall to stand beside her.

"Nothing's _happening_! Where's the interface?"

Jack reached forward into the activation field and the computer interface flared into existence. She eyed Mulholland with skepticism.

"You don't have the implants?" Jack held up a hand, waved her fingers.

"_What _implants?"

"Haptic adaptive interface – all the interfaces are virtual. We all have little wafer sensor-things implanted in our fingers. You don't have that?"

"Not where _I_ come from. We have _buttons_." Mulholland countered.

Jack simply touched a key and a physical keyboard rotated out of the console.

"That help?" Jack asked.

Mulholland shook her head, finding a virtual interface rather stupid. Without the mods, what did you do? She started typing furiously.

Behind them, a large muted blast sounded behind the heavy door.

"So pass the Mryth'dehl," Javik shook his head in disgust.

"I've got docking control and an automatic manifest of all vessels currently berthed." Mulholland announced. "Apparently there are a _lot _of ships out there. Most are depowered hulks, from the looks of them." Her fingers did another quick dance on the controls. "I scan two vessels in our near vicinity powered and in standby. One is Javik's, and it's right… _here_." She pointed to a small glowing dot on the map of the area she called up. "It's two sections directly below us – that way," she pointed to her right. "It's no short run even so."

In the window of the heavy door, a red dragon's face suddenly appeared.

"We can't beat them," Shepard muttered, staring at that door with a half-believing tone while assessing his resources. Jack came to stand beside him to watch him think. Her fingers brushed his hand and he reflexively grasped her pinkie with his, gave it a small tug. He glanced down at her with a half-smile.

"The _hell _we can't. We only have her word for that." Jack said quietly.

"I think her word is good," He stated, nodding slightly toward the red helmet in the door's window. Jack accepted his validation of Mulholland without comment. _His_ word she trusted. He ground his teeth. "I don't like to lose. Or run."

"Anybody can be beaten." Jack reminded him. "Just a matter of how and when."

"Amy - Inquisitoria. Weaknesses?" Shepard demanded. Mulholland looked up from her scanning.

"Hard to say. Defeat for them is _very_ rare."

"Sounded like Firs'ehcô took out a few." Jack reminded her.

"As far as I can recall, their armor is composed of a carbon-nanofibre weave with molecular diamond interlacing. Makes it _very_ hard to crack. But, if you _can_ breach it the armor kills them all by itself."

"Okay, that's something," Shepard said. "The diamond _would_ make it brittle, though. Can I also assume our weapons won't breach it?"

"You can." Mulholland went back to the computer. After another moment, she looked back up. "I don't know how relevant this is, but there are very few living biotics in their space. Against their laws. All I know."

* * *

_Arriving at the end of the corridor, the Captain ordered burners deployed, and the heavy door would slowly begin to give way._

* * *

"Am I right in that docking areas on the Citadel are modular? Or is that an addition only to my Citadel?" Shepard asked. Mulholland wondered what he was thinking.

"The docking gantries are modular. They're hot-swappable depending on ship size. They can be blown in case of emergency, stuff like that." She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. "Why?"

The heavy door barring the Inquisitoria began changing colour.

"Probably nothing. Any schematics of this ward available?" Mulholland was shaking her head as he said it, hunted through the computer's guts for a moment then called up the internal schema for the ward.

"Whatever you're planning very likely needs Citadel Control."

Shepard mulled the schematic then apparently decided as the heavy door went from gray to purple.

"Jack and I will be staying here. The rest of you head for Javik's ship." He turned to look at them. "Javik, once on board, head to the Presidium. At its peak on our Citadel were the Council escape pods – it's how they ran when Sovereign attacked. The pods replaced the original hatchway system on it, so it's likely this Citadel has one or the other."

"And?" Javik asked.

"That's where you'll pick us up."

The Prothean nodded. Murtock demanded that Jack leave with them and Grunt insisted that he stay instead.

"Not debating this." Shepard told them in his 'command' tone. "We need to get off this station and back to our own Galaxy. We need to stop them and keep them from following us. We can't do anything from here except slow them down. Go. _Now."_

Grunt planted his feet, looked truculent.

"The ship is Prothean, so Javik needs to be dealing with that. Amy's not a fighter, and Murtock is… " he tried to be diplomatic for Jack's sake, but she beat him to it.

"…Murtock."

"Doesn't _anybody_ love me?" Murtock growled as she shrugged.

"It's about _trust_, Grunt. Who _else_ would I have watching their backs?"

Grunt snorted, nodded once and marched to the other door.

"Let's go!" he growled. Reluctantly Javik and Murtock joined him.

"Shepard," Mulholland hesitated. "This is not your Citadel. It's never been inhabited for very long."

"It's a big gamble I know, but so was the Crucible."

"Once again, the Inquisitoria have _rarely_ been defeated. You should _really_ keep that in mind."

Shepard pointed to the door where Grunt waited.

"Then they're due." Jack growled. The door was now an iridescent white-pink turning to a hot red.

"Lock it behind you." Shepard told Mulholland, then forgot her. Behind him, Mulholland sighed and they all stepped through. The door slid closed with a heavy thud, then a pronounced _clack _announced it locked as the heavy bolts in the frame slammed into place.

* * *

_Through the portal, she could see her prey. They spoke and the apparent leader after some discussion ordered the bulk of his group to exit, leaving just he and a heavily-tattooed female behind. Curious. In True Space only the Beloved's Flesh, marked with the Living Word of the Will of the True Echo was so extensively covered._

* * *

Shepard tugged the pinkie he'd yet to relinquish.

"What do you think?"

Jack took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

"How long did you need?"

"Two minutes."

Jack scoffed.

"Well, shit. _Easy_." She let go of his hand. He nodded once at the figure behind the door. After a moment, it nodded back.

Beneath that dragon's face, the thirty-centimetre thick door was starting to _melt._

* * *

_When he nodded at her, she returned it as one veteran to another._

_Then he left the girl to stand alone as he disappeared beyond her viewing range._

_For the first time since landing on the Pivot, The Captain felt the need to be wary._


	42. Chasing The Dragon's Tail

**ALPHA CITADEL**

**THE VOID**

**SYSTEM INAPPLICABLE**

**LATE OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**JACK COUNTED DOWN IN HER HEAD** from fifty and she reached twenty-one when the first of the Inquisitoria rushed through…

…straight into the sudden and powerful Singularity Jack dropped in their way. Behind her, Shepard punched his omnitool through the computer interface, turned to the wall and waited. An alarm hooted.

Suspended, the Inquisitoria flailed – four of them caught. Behind them, the Captain and Twelfth Knight snapped off two shots, one of which Jack nimbly dodged, and returned fire with a Warp into that Singularity that detonated with a blast large enough to knock _her_ back. The four suspended Knights had been crushed in their armor, the other two down and unmoving. Jack instantly disengaged and ran for Shepard.

He was looking at the rather large score mark of a shot mere centimetres from where his head had been only a moment before.

"She doesn't like you," Jack informed him as the wall before them sliced open and a Keeper appeared.

Shepard glanced back at the crumpled figures behind them.

"I'll try and get over it." He pointed to the Keeper access tunnel. "After you."

She smiled.

"Nice thinkin' – they do go everywhere."

"Exactly."

Both disappeared into the tunnel as the door sliced down behind them.

So much for the 'rarely defeated' Inquisitoria.

* * *

**THE CORRIDOR** was silent, save for the clacking feet of the Keeper working diligently on the computer Shepard had destroyed. One of the seals on the armor of a dead Knight popped and hissed.

The Captain pushed herself to a sitting position then shook her head. After a moment, she climbed painfully to her feet. Quick checks of her armor's diagnostics showed her to be functional, if severely damaged. All of her Knights were dead, crushed in their shells. Twelfth Knight had been mangled by the biotic detonation. She had her onboard AI replay the combat analysis it always ran.

There were no Inquisitor biotics. The Lord Remnant specifically forbade 'witchfire' as it had been the power of the blue witches that had at the least slowed his armies and at the worst even succeeded in turning the Legions back once or twice during the war against them. The Inquisitoria _had_ defences against the powers, but had not faced any biotics of note for quite some time and thus it had not occurred to her to prepare for them.

An error in judgment. Arrogance on her part. A flaw. She would need to learn to be cautious. Too many victories could be as detrimental as too many defeats. That female showed biotic power that easily equalled anything she'd seen in the secret histories.

She knew the Lord Remnant. Like the Spartans of ancient times, for a troop of Inquisitoria to return without a full complement of Knights from a mission was considered a defeat. Inquisitoria were never defeated. To die taking an enemy with one was a victory, the death irrelevant. Only victory mattered. Only the Will. The Inquisitoria were the Hands of The Beloved. If they failed, She failed. Better death than failure. The Captain and whatever of her Knights remained could never return home now. That fault was hers and hers alone and she would atone in the only way she understood.

Inquisitors were never stopped. They could be slowed. Delayed. Even diverted. But _never_ stopped.

Whatever it took, she _would_ fulfill her sacred duty.

She now had nothing to lose.

* * *

**JAVIK SMILED TO HIMSELF** when he saw his ship still safely moored. They had received the only break so far on this Citadel, as Murtock had loudly proclaimed upon seeing the vessel, and made it without any further danger. They did not linger. Once boarded, Javik ran as many quick checks as he could, fully expecting to find extensive damage from the battle but astonishingly found none. He didn't ponder it and powered the ship for flight.

"This thing is fifty thousand years old?" Grunt asked as they watched Javik prepare. The Prothean nodded. Systems were beginning to respond.

"Interesting aesthetics," Mulholland noted. She liked the design. Everything looked to be clean, to the point and useful, straight-edged and functional.

"We did not have time for frivolities during my war," Javik told her testily. "This ship was made to fight, not to be pretty."

"I'll just be happy if the damn thing _actually flies_." Murtock grumbled.

"It will fly, annoying human." Javik backed the ship away from the station. "It also has many convenient airlocks."

"Fine – I'll sit down," Murtock half-sneered, knowing a threat when he heard one. He was not liking these people much at all. He'd thought he and Jack had had weird friends in their time together.

Javik suddenly swore in Prothean. His main engines were out. Automatic repair subroutines were handled by nanobots and they were active. They used stores of inert materials to craft new parts, but it would take a while to fix. The nanobots saved ships from having to employ valuable engineers during his cycle as they were far better employed seeking ways to stop the Reapers. Not that it had truly mattered.

"What is it?" Mulholland asked.

"My engines were damaged. They are being repaired, but at the moment I have only maneuvering thrusters."

"And _inertia_," she added, gesturing at the holodisplay that stood in for a forward portal. "We _are_ in space. That in motion stays in motion… right? Point us at the Presidium and fire them up. We'll get there. _Slow,_ but we'll get there."

"Yes, of course," Javik replied, feeling ever-so-slightly sheepish. Basic physics. Far too used to the convenience of point-and-go. Javik pointed the _Far Traveller_ at the Presidium spire and fired his thrusters.

Javik also discovered that his weapons systems were in no shape, self-repair routines indicated at least several _hours_.

That Javik kept to himself.

* * *

**SHEPARD AND JACK HURRIED** through the Keeper tunnels, occasionally having to double back or loop around some large obstruction to keep going forward.

"We can take these all the way to the top, can't we?" Jack asked him.

"No. The Keepers use the hooks on their feet to climb the ones inside the tower. Also discourages would-be infiltrators, like ourselves. We're gonna have to run through this place's Commons." He slowed. "We need to find an exit junction soon."

"I could fly us."

"No, I think we might just need it before we get out of here."

They exited the Keeper tunnels in an empty cistern – what would have been one of the lakes they knew on their Citadel – and could hear the sound of combat not far from them.

"The other fifty?" Jack inquired quietly.

"Very likely," Shepard agreed as quietly. "Let's try and keep our heads down."

In the distance he heard the distinctive roar of a blood-raging krogan. They made their way around the cistern hugging the wall, so far unseen by any combatant. Jack halted, pulling Shepard short.

"Listen – can you hear that?"

"What am I listening for?" He asked as she pulled him closer.

"I could'a swore I heard _your_ voice. From _over there._"

Shepard cocked his head to listen. For a moment he could only hear yells and screams, the firing of rifles and explosive rounds. Then someone ordered a fall back to regroup – and it was definitely _his_ voice.

"That _is_ my voice." He frowned, slowly rising to look over the cistern lip.

"Other Shepards?" Jack followed him to spy over the edge. "Other Jacks…?"

"The way this has all been going, I'd be disappointed if there weren't."

Across the way a fierce battle raged. _Much_ better armed and armored humans, turians, asari, krogan and salarians battled energy-spewing Inquisitoria. Bodies from both sides littered the one gleaming Presidium. Two metres away he saw a red-haired woman in armor crumpled near their cistern. She was in full armor, her weapon resembled an N7-issued _Typhoon_ with minor changes and Shepard could feel his fingers itch. Jack saw it too.

"I could try pulling it over." She offered. Shepard considered, watching the ebb and flow of the battle. There was no one near them save the bodies of the dead.

"Try and grab her..." Jack bobbed up, grabbed the corpse with a biotic Pull.

Shepard finished "…with it." as the body was dropped at his feet.

Jack gave him a smug smile.

"You couldn't have shaved a few seconds off?" Shepard asked with a hint of sarcasm. Jack waved a fist at him. Shepard squatted down to look the dead soldier over.

"She's got extra T-clips," Shepard said after a brief examination. He pulled what gear he could from her. A pistol he handed to Jack, a few grenades he put in his pockets. The _Typhoon_ got a quick check and he was satisfied it was functional. Jack squatted across from him, pointed to an amp on the woman's ear.

"Biotic too."

Shepard turned the corpse over. The face was not unattractive, the fiery hair cut short. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose. The shot that had killed her had punched clean through the armor, flesh and bone covering her torso. The shot had cauterized the wound as it went.

"_Fuck. _That was some gun."

"Not a kinetic weapon. A _burner_."

"Well, shit - somebody's got money."

Shepard gestured to the mesh on her chestplate.

"Sentinel-class. Even reinforced, she didn't stand a chance."

A shot blazed across the cistern and they decided it was time to move.

"There's a drainage channel we can use to get around that bunch," Shepard told her as he pointed the way out. "The tricky bit will be getting out without being seen."

"First things first," Jack said, glancing back at the dead woman behind them. "Who do think she was?"

Shepard shrugged.

"She was armored and rigged the way _I_ would have been as a Sentinel." He mused.

"A _girl_ Shepard?" Jack seemed quite taken with the idea. "Shit. Imagine _that_."

He went silent for a moment, then shrugged again.

"I'm trying not to, but from what I've been told lately, it's possible." He chuckled quietly. "Because of that, I know _anything's_ possible."

He stopped her as a heavy crunch sounded only a few metres away.

"Something _else _you'll explain later?" Jack asked, not liking to be in the dark. Shepard nodded.

"Sorry."

"Not the place for it, I know." Jack grumbled as they reached the channel. They were just about to head into when a loud shout and the sound of many running feet made them freeze. Ahead of them, up the channel, people were jumping in to use it for cover. Fire from the surviving Inquisitoria began raking the area. Shepard took a quick glance around the corner. He counted at least twenty people of varying species, the battle raging as fiercely as ever. Shepard sighed, looked back at Jack.

"Well. _Fuck_."


	43. Stubborn Is As Stubborn Does

**TES FRIGATE _PHOENIX_**

**ENROUTE ILMNOS, IALESSA SYSTEM**

**LATE OCTOBER 2188**

* * *

**THE VOICES CAME AND WENT**, and Flynn didn't recognize any of them. He remembered a great deal of pain, no small modicum of rage… and _stars?_

_The shape they were in…_

_I can't believe they survived it… apparently carried him the whole way…!_

_Injuries were extensive, may be a while before he regains consciousness… _

He'd thought he'd heard Duke speak, but he knew he couldn't really trust _that_ and didn't bother trying to follow any particular conversations. He'd also thought he'd heard Miranda's voice at one point but he dismissed that as likely just his own weariness playing tricks on his mind. He remembered his ship the _Red Mane _so nearly crushed but not, telling his VI to get him out and into orbit. He remembered another ship, but nothing after. Then more voices.

But now, silence again, and Flynn found he preferred it. He didn't hurt any longer, but the ghost of the pain lingered in aches more remembered than felt, and weariness had never felt so good. Too tired, he just faded back into sleep. The universe could go hang for a few hours.

Winston Black had fared better than his friend. He'd awakened just as the _Phoenix's_ 'afternoon' chime had sounded through the ship. The medbay smelled clean and the air crisply scrubbed, a faint scent of a subtle perfume in the air. Somehow he'd expected it. Even on a ship full of women and all highly-trained professionals, they held fast to their femininity. It was something Duke genuinely admired about women. His idea of hell would have been a universe without women and the very idea made him shudder. Feeling reasonably strong, he sat up in his bed and calmly watched Hoshiko_-san_ finish her scan of Flynn. Duke had only suffered a concussion and a broken leg, a few hairline fractures here and there. A printed fiber cast would protect his leg until the bones knit and still allow him to move about. Hoshiko-san smiled at him when she turned from Flynn's still-unconscious form.

_Well_, Duke thought with a smile, _I really _do _like capable women._

"_Kon'nichiwa_," he said, giving it a shot, his Japanese not as good as he'd have liked. "_Watashi wa, anata wa watashi no keizoku-teki kenkō no tame ni kansha shinakereba naranai?_

Hoshiko_-san_ seemed taken aback a moment, then pleasantly surprised and replied in kind.

"_Watashi wa koko de ishadesu, hai. Anata wa kanjite yoidesu ka?"_

Black nodded his head in a slight bow, and replied, "_Haruka ni yoi, arigatōgozaimashita. Watashi no hidoi nihonjin no I o owabi mōshiagemasu."_

"Not at all," Hoshiko_-san_ said, switching back to Standard. "It's refreshing to hear it."

"One cannot always rely on implants," Black informed her with his most charming smile. "Technology is fine, but I prefer the ability to go without, if necessary. We were trained in the N7's to speak several and I find it more _personal_ _and intimate_ to use it when I can." Hoshiko_-san_ seemed to pick up on his meaning, and her smile broadened. Nice to see he still had it.

"A wise policy." She ran her omnitool over him, voice confirming her interest. Black congratulated himself. "You are mending …well, and I believe you can be discharged at any time – or whenever you feel able."

"Thank you. My friend?"

"He will be here a bit longer. He had several broken ribs, a rather severe head injury and a punctured lung. He also had several minor fractures in his cervical vertebrae, but nothing we couldn't repair." Hoshiko_-san_ frowned at the Irishman. "If I may say so, he is an extremely stubborn man. I had to use a remote med-drone to render him unconscious."

"Well, he _is_ Irish," Duke said, amused by the idea of the drone. Flynn had never been a fan of doctors. That innate stubbornness had even extended to their arrival on the _Phoenix_. They'd looked like two wraiths from some horrific netherworld disembarking. Even though he'd been worse off, still Flynn insisted – profanely – that he carry Duke to the infirmary.

"_I got th' bastard here, an' I'll take 'im to th' end!" _he'd snarled, half-delirious. _Only _when Duke had been secured and his treatment begun did Flynn relent – more or less.

"He is responding to treatment well," she said, adjusting a control to the monitor beside Flynn's bed. "I am actually rather surprised by how well."

"In my days with him in our squad, he was called '_anbureikaburu'," _he told her. "He'd saved us all more than once with his seeming invulnerability. Some thought he'd had some gene-mods done, but he swears otherwise."

"I detected none." She ran another quick scan for her report to Commander Lawson. "It is likely simply a natural ability." Winston glanced around the medbay and noticed Kassidi gone.

"My quarian friend? She's been discharged?"

"Yes. She was only suffering a minor concussion. She's been working with Asha'Rhaal to mine that data she brought from Kahje."

Duke nodded, watched her move and found he liked it. He shook certain thoughts from his head as unworthy and greedy then asked instead, "You said _I_ could be discharged?"

"_If_ you feel capable," she replied. "I recommend you attempt to avoid any _too_-strenuous activity for the next few days, if possible." He heard the invitation in her voice and logged it away for future reference.

"Unfortunately that can be never guaranteed, but I shall certainly attempt it." He swung his legs – slowly – over the edge of the bed, tested his weight on the rendered cast and found it satisfactory.

"Your effects are in that locker, there." Hoshiko_-san_ pointed out, sensing the change in his mood. He was a handsome man, but she was no child nor a fool. "They've been cleaned."

"Thank you." Black gathered them. Gingerly he pulled them on. Hoshiko_-san_ sat at her desk and tried not to watch. Black had a lean yet densely packed frame with virtually no body fat, his back laced with ancient silver scars. Hoshiko_-san_ compared his form to a dancer, long and lean but tremendously strong. He was buckling his vest over when Miranda, Shizuka and Ilola Jamilah entered the sickbay.

Hoshiko_-san_ went to Miranda with her report. Shizuka and Jamilah approached Black, the latter giving him an appreciative smile.

"You look good," Jamilah told him, looking him up and down.

"You have a discerning eye," he replied, trying the same charming smile on her. She laughed. Shizuka gave him a nod which was returned then gave Jamilah an odd look, crossed her arms and watched Duke finish. She'd only come to see how he was doing – or so she'd stated.

"Should you be getting up?" she asked, passingly concerned.

"My doctor says I can if I like. I like." Shizuka just nodded, knew he knew himself well enough.

"I had a good look at the weapons you two brought back with you," Jamilah continued, pulling the purloined rifle into view. "Thought you'd want to hear about it."

"You work quickly. I _was_ understandably curious." Black sat again, pulled his boots on. Fortunately the tight-fitting nature of the cast, shaped to his leg and foot, allowed the boot to go on with relative ease. Jamilah rolled the gun in her hands as she spoke.

"This thing isn't even remotely what I'd call 'conventional'. Alliance R&D had toyed with this stuff years ago but could never make a practical go of it. From what I can tell, it fires a layered energy beam that gets routed through a series of microscopic mirrors, which just crazy-boosts it. It has two crystalline focusing arrays in the barrel that split the beam then recombine it before release. Whoever built this was a damned genius because she managed to create a _dark energy_ charging system. I was honestly salivating when I was scanning this thing. The tech is unbelievable – this thing _never_ needs to be recharged."

Black looked up at that.

"What? Never?"

"That's unlikely," Shizuka added, looking at the weapon with more interest.

"I'm not sure how, but this thing _charges itself_ just sitting there – and it hits like five tons of hell."

"Flynn had said even a near-miss nearly tore his arm off – or something to that effect."

"Doesn't surprise me. If we could mass produce these, the remaining Reaper forces wouldn't stand a snowball's chance on a sun."

"Did you take it apart?" Shizuka asked. Jamilah shook her head.

"Didn't dare. Did as intense a scan as I could, got the whole thing modelled in the computer but the security features to prevent duplication on this thing look _lethal_."

"That follows." Duke told her, standing carefully now that he was completely dressed. The cast took his weight well. "Could they be bypassed?"

Jamilah considered, looked dubious.

"With _extreme_ care… maybe."

Miranda and Hoshiko-_san_ joined them then.

"I'm glad to see you up," Miranda told him. "You had us worried." Black smiled.

"I didn't dare die. If I had, Flynn would have probably beaten me back to life." Miranda looked back to Hoshiko_-san_ who yawned suddenly. She'd been in the medbay since the men had been brought in.

"Please excuse me."

"You've been here a long time, Hoshiko_-san_. Go get some rest," Miranda ordered. Hoshiko_-san_ nodded, grateful.

"Thank you."

"Flynn's over the worst of it?" Miranda asked, voice carefully neutral.

"The rest depends entirely on Mr. Flynn himself." Hoshiko_-san_ said as she vanished through the door.

"He's a tough bastard, I'll give him that," Shizuka agreed. She directed her next to Duke. "He carried you the whole way?"

"He did."

"Why did you risk yourself by going back?" Shizuka's disdain for the idea was plain. "You're needed _here_."

"We were _brothers_." Duke reminded her quietly. "We are still. I have not forgotten that – and neither has he." Shizuka's face was unreadable.

"If you say so." Shizuka didn't like the look of pity in his eyes. It was nothing she could ever explain. Some things hurt out of proportion with their infliction, and Akilah Shizuka had never been very good with pain. Duke seemed to dismiss her in his mind, which she also didn't like. Some constants she'd grown used to and she was starting to notice the change.

Duke smiled at Jamilah who returned it. Duke gave it about five more seconds of thought then made a decision.

"If there are no objections, I feel fit enough to take care of myself from here on out."

"There's none from me," Jamilah said jokingly, the look she sent him plain. He returned it.

Shizuka saw Jamilah's smile and frowned. _That was pretty damn quick._

Duke turned back to Miranda.

"I should add to what's been said that that ship and the soldiers on New Chamberlain were unlike any mercenaries I've seen. From what little I saw in the aftermath the weapon that destroyed the colony was thorough and no technology I've even heard of, let alone encountered before." Miranda agreed.

"That follows. It fits the patterns of previous reports."

"As I suspected." He glanced back at Jamilah. "If you'll excuse me…?" and made to go. "I'd like to discuss this weapon with you further, Gunnery Chief."

Jamilah nodded, her demeanour professional but her eyes smiling.

"Certainly."

"One more thing," Miranda interjected. "We've received word from Dr. T'soni and changed our rendezvous to her personal residence – she calls it the 'Bastion'. It's extremely well-hidden and very well-protected. She's offered it as a base of operations. It should be secure against any more… incidences. Councillor Hackett also assures me that Alliance ships will be stepping up patrols after this."

"Very generous all round." Duke replied, stopping. "Anything further on that ship?"

"It was seen exiting the system, then it vanished. It's using a propulsion system the likes of which no one has ever seen before."

"That's consistent with the earlier reports, yes?" Miranda nodded to his question. "We are still a step behind here. We need to know the precise nature of this threat."

"Dr. T'soni 'assures' me that answers are forthcoming, but she refused to be more specific over comms. She seemed very definite."

"A step forward perhaps." He amended. Behind her Shizuka was still frowning at him. Even frowning, she was as beautiful to him as she had ever been but Duke's dreams reluctantly no longer included her. What he wished for and what he wanted were too often at odds, and if Akilah ever actually knew how he'd really felt about her, she'd never indicated that it mattered. Perhaps it was uncharitable to the other women he'd pursued, but it boiled down to if he could not achieve his dream, he would simply fulfil his fantasies. He never lied to them however, although he suspected he may have lied to himself on too many occasions. Akilah was wedded to a memory and there was no competing with _that_. He had learned far too many lessons on _that_ he'd wished he hadn't.

"I'd like a full report given to Asha'Rhaal when you feel up to it."

"On everything I remember. I fear it won't be much."

"Anything will help." She added as he and Jamilah exited the room.

Miranda turned to check on Flynn for herself, was surprised to see Shizuka actually near him, face neutral but with eyes surging with unidentifiable emotions. The hard cast fell over them when she noticed Miranda watching her.

"I thought you came only to check on Duke," Miranda accused lightly.

"You have a history with him, don't you?" Shizuka asked unexpectedly, indicating Flynn with a motion of her head. Miranda blinked in surprise. "I have ears, I have eyes."

"I don't know if you can call it a 'history'." Miranda stepped closer to Flynn's bed, looked over his sleeping face. He had crinkle lines around his eyes she'd not noticed before. "I certainly don't hate him as much as you seem to, however."

Shizuka bristled at that indignantly.

"Hate? I'm no child, Lawson. I _don't_ hate him. We've been through far too much for me to hate him. I _don't_. He's saved my life any number of times." She looked down at her once-comrade. "Like Duke said… I did think of him as a brother, once. We were soldiers together, that's how it goes…" Shizuka rubbed her face and seemed pained to admit it. "He used to tell the funniest damn stories…"

"If it's not hate – what is it?" Miranda pressed, her curiosity overriding her better judgement. The Hammer sighed, looked back down at the unconscious Flynn. As Duke and Flynn were brothers-in-arms, so had she and Flynn been – once. She'd loved him in that way, and she honestly remembered it, honestly _still_ had it – somewhere, down deep locked away.

You just didn't _forget_. She _couldn't_ forget. It simply was a facet to her reality she didn't want to face. Not if she could help it. Not yet.

"I was… disappointed. My faith shaken. I was hurt." She said softly, almost as if she were talking _to Flynn_ then seemed to fall into some kind of reverie. Her features softened, her eyes went distant but she quickly snapped out of it. "It's none of your business." She sniffed, straightened up. "If you're smart, you'll dump him and his crate on the nearest Wildcat Asteroid and forget him."

Dry as the drell homeworld, Miranda replied, "I'll take that under advisement."

"Suit yourself," Shizuka snapped, then stalked from the medbay. Miranda watched her go, in a way gratified that she'd learned more – even if it had been inadvertent on her part – about the driven woman. She knew how it felt to be driven, to be so focused you sometimes focused on things you might have resolved otherwise and never being satisfied. Miranda understood having outstanding issues, did she _ever_. One of those issues lay quietly before her, one she'd never resolved, one she was wondering now as to the possibilities therein, as anxious as they seemed to make her. She and Flynn, fire and ice, oil and water, day and night.

Miranda had been a study in competing tensions when her shuttle had returned from their search for the two men to discover that they beaten them back to the _Phoenix_ by several minutes. She'd been both angry and glad he – they – were alive. Seeing him lying there, as hurt as he was… well, it had shaken her more than she thought it should have, more than she should have allowed. It had been _years_ ago. There shouldn't have been any way he should _still_ affect her so much.

Yet he did. Then. Now. Miss-Always-In-Control seemed to lose her grip on it when he was within a light-year of her. It said _something_, but she wasn't at all certain she wanted to know _what._

It had been for only eight days. _Eight._ No. Don't go back there, don't think about it. Without realizing she'd done it, Miranda had reached over and brushed a lock of his ginger hair from his face, caught herself and cursed her own impulses. Maybe Shizuka was right. It might be better to just…

"You _idiot_…" she muttered, a small part of her wondering to just whom she was referring. "What _am_ I going to do with you?"

"A massage …would be noice…" His voice was weak, but he was definitely awake. Miranda couldn't have been more surprised if he'd suddenly leapt to his feet and started to jig on the spot. "But a drink o' feckin' water would nae hurt neither…."

"Flynn…!" She started and smiled without thinking.

"How …long?" He asked as his eyes opened, their normally vibrant green dulled with pain and medication. Miranda gave him a drink, which he accepted without comment. She'd forgotten how resilient he could be, but even this seemed to be pushing belief.

"Half a day. You're on my ship."

"Duke?" Flynn sounded depleted. She didn't doubt it.

"Fixed and functioning. He'll only need a couple of days to completely heal. You'll need longer." He shook his head and immediately looked as if he regretted doing it.

"I can heal jus' as easy on me own ship," he said, huffing in a few breaths. His lungs felt like they'd been run over a cheese grater a few times and his entire body hurt, but it was serviceable – if barely – and that was enough for him.

"Don't be stupid," she told him, crossing her arms. "You're not going anywhere."

"Aye, but I think I will." With a groan he sat up, clutched his head. Miranda gave up and let him. He swayed slightly. He looked as if he'd vomit, but it passed. It wasn't until he'd actually had a foot on the floor that Miranda moved forward to push him back. Despite his bulk, he went down easy.

"That's far enough, Flynn. Don't be so damn stubborn, you thick-headed…!" One hand clamped around her wrist with surprising strength. He pulled her close until their noses almost touched.

"Ain't _no bastard_ in this universe tells _me_ where ta go – an' tha' includes _you_." Miranda pulled her wrist from his grip. _Men_, she thought with feminine disdain at the whole gender, _Some things they just had to learn for themselves_, _all we can do is ready fire suppression and emergency services. _She huffed and stepped back, not wanting to be that close for reasons that had nothing to do with her current state of mind. Stubborn is as stubborn did, and she _knew_ stubborn.

"_Fine._ Go." She took another few steps back as he lay there and watched her. Miranda made a sweeping motion. "_I'm serious_. There's the bloody door."

Flynn, in a surprising show of strength, got to his feet and actually managed the door before his body agreed with Miranda that the attempt was rather stupid and stopped him. He braced himself against the wall and panted, his body feeling as if it had been punched multiple times by a giant fist.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" When he didn't move, she stalked after him. Not being at all gentle, she hit the door control and shoved him through it as it opened. He grunted in pain as he grabbed the doorjamb to keep from falling. "_Get off_ my ship!"

"A'roight, _fine!_" Flynn muttered, pain arcing up and down inside him. "Ye made yer point."

Miranda bent close, grabbed his arm and pulled him around to look at her.

"_I can't hear you_! _What did you say_?" He winced at the volume.

"I said ye made yer _bloody point_!"

Miranda stepped away to cock her head at him, plant hands on hips.

"_Well_, now – there _is_ a semblance of sense in that thick-boned cavern you call a head." She counted to twenty, then pointed to his bed. "Get back in bed. _Now_."

Flynn crutch-walked his way back to it using the medbay furniture to get there. Miranda followed, but didn't aid him. He finally made it to the bed where he slumped against it.

"Thanks fer the help," he said sarcastically, feeling like he'd collapse any second.

"I'd have kicked you in the arse, but I didn't want to damage your brain." She didn't come near again until he'd pulled himself into bed and lay there staring at the ceiling until his breathing evened out. "_I rule here, _mister. Don't you forget it."

Flynn just stared at her, then smiled slightly.

"Some thin's never change."

"Some things don't need to, and don't forget _that_, either."

"I won' stay longer'n I have ta." His pride had him say, for his own satisfaction.

"Of course you won't." She told him, face guileless.

"Wha's tha' suppos'd ta mean?" He snapped, remembering the past a little too vividly. This woman always had nerve to spare. He didn't expect repentant weeping and a cilice, but a little regret would have went a long way. She obviously hadn't cared or cared to remember. Flynn could take a lot, but one thing he refused to be was _dismissed._

"What it sounds like." _Figures._

"C'n never bleedin' tell with you," he grumbled, pain diverting him from the argument. "Yer all alike."

"'We all'? All of us who, exactly?"

"Don' be tryin' to trap me with semantics! It's how ye always bloody won!"

"Won? What am _I_ trying to win?" she countered, remembering their meeting before the colony had been destroyed. Flynn grimaced, deciding to just be silent and glare at her. She relented then, slightly.

"You and your ship are both damaged beyond practical functionality, Flynn. It was lucky it got you here in the first place. You take my offer and I'll have my people fix it – or I can dump the two of you into space and you can both float. I don't have time for this. You saw it – you were there. This is an _imminent_ threat."

Flynn thought about it and also relented – to a point.

"Ye know who they were then?"

"No, not yet." He sent her a skeptical look.  
"They attack anything strategic?"

"Well, no, not yet. But attacking a colony…"

"An unsanctioned wildcat miner hole," he reminded her.

"It fits the pattern I showed you." She crossed her arms while giving him a stern look, then decided. "My offer still stands," she told him, "though I should probably have my bloody head examined."

"Yer a hard woman," he tiredly told her, but it wasn't a recrimination.

"No, I'm not, and you know I'm not." She took a step back toward him. "_Choose_."

"Float n' sputter or join a ship full o' hostiles. I've always loved havin' choices that were nae choices a'tall."

"Oh, stop being so bloody dramatic. You are not on a ship of 'hostiles'."

"I don' stay where I'm nawt wanted." He smiled a sardonic smile. "An' ye canna afford me."

"You're probably right," She admitted. "But I'll take the chance." She waited. "Well?"

Flynn put his head down as he seemed to go away for a moment then came back. He rolled his head to look at her, his voice soft and earnest, carrying real regret and pain.

"What did I do that was so bad?"

"I… don't know …what you mean," she lied, the question shaking her. The wonder in his voice was genuine, the confusion real. There was an undercurrent of melancholy to it she didn't understand. Yes, it had not ended _perhaps_ as either might have wanted, but she couldn't see what she had done to earn his anger and resentment. It was never easy with a man who refused to give you a bloody centimetre. She could see him waiting, see that he wanted an _actual_ answer. She wasn't sure she had one.

With a sigh, he slumped back into the pillow, turned away.

"Nevermind," he said, sounding final.

No. Miranda needed to know what he thought has actually happened. Something was not jibing here. What _he'd_ done? He'd done something Miranda Lawson at the time had never experienced before. Something she admitted to herself she'd reacted to poorly; that in retrospect she was beginning to think she should have done very differently. But, looked at honestly… Damn it. He deserved an answer.

"You were… _you_." She told him gently, hoping he'd get what she actually meant. He stared at her a few long moments, then looked away.

"Aye." He seemed to deflate further, and she couldn't tell if it were just he being exhausted or something else. He closed his eyes and said nothing for a while. Miranda thought he'd fallen asleep and certainly didn't begrudge him for it. She waited a bit longer then decided to go.

She was halfway to the door when she heard him softly say, "_Fine_. But I'm only here for Duke's sake."

There was something in his voice she took for a challenge. He seemed to think he was dealing with the Miranda Lawson of all those years ago. He was not, and she was still debating whether she should show him. In the meantime, she'd play his damn game.

She liked a challenge and she liked being one.

"You can call it whatever you like." Miranda told him in her best haughty voice, as the door sliced open before her.

"I want it in writin' this time an' I _guaran-bloody-tee_ I'm gonna be fookin' _expensive_." A contract was a contract, no? He'd learned from the last time, most definitely. There'd be no up and walking away from _this time_.

Miranda turned in the doorway to send him a look he couldn't decipher. Her voice, however, had just a hint of mockery.

"_Cibé_," she told him in Gaelic, and Flynn found himself smiling as the door closed behind her. _Irish luck indeed_. He put his head back down. _Things were different were they? We'll just see._

On the other side of the medbay door, Miranda pulled in a deep breath then let it out in a tired sigh.

"You were you," she told herself softly. "and I was me and we still are, damn it."

Asha'Rhaal called her to the Operations Centre and Miranda just shook her head and started walking.

"I just wish I knew what that _meant_."

Flynn, for his part, was fast asleep.


End file.
